, and,
instantly, she very much regretted them; but, now that she had uttered
them she did not so much as think of trying to recall them or deny their
truth. "Yes, and I ain't ashamed of it," said she. "I _do_ love him--a
thousand times better nor you ever dreamed of."

"What good will it do you?" asked her rival, coldly. "You don't suppose
he'll ever think of making you his wife! Why, look at the difference
between you and me!"

"Yes," said Madge, sarcastically, "there _is_ a powerful sight of
differ! You'd be willin' to ruin' him to win him, while I'd be willin'
to gin up my happiness to save him!"

Barbara, more in earnest than she ever had been in her life before, took
a quick step toward the mountain girl. "Then prove it by going away,"
said she, "and I will see that my father advances Frank Layson the money
he needs." She looked at her eagerly. "Do you promise?"

"No," said Madge, with firm decision. "No; I won't."

"Then it is you who will ruin him."

While they had been talking an idea had sprung to sudden flower in
Madge's mind. It was a daring, an unheard of plan that had occurred to
her. There were details of it which filled her with shrinking. She knew
that if she put it into practice, and it ever became generally known,
she would be the talk of Lexington and that not all that talk would be
complimentary. She knew that, after she had carried out the plan, even
the man for whom she thought of doing it might look at her with scorn.
But it was the only plan which her alert and anxious brain could find
which promised anything at all. And if it won, perhaps--perhaps--he
might not scorn her! At any rate it was a sacrifice, and sacrifice for
him was an attractive thought to her.

"Me ruin him?" she said to Barbara. "Don't you be too sure! There is a
shorter and a better way nor yours, to save him, an' I'm goin' to try
it!"

The bluegrass girl, astonished, would have questioned her, but Madge
waited for no questioning. Without another word she hurried from the
room, in a mad search for Colonel Doolittle.

* * * * *

From the country round about for miles the planters had come into
Lexington upon their blooded mounts, their wives, daughters,
sweethearts, riding in great carriages. Now and then a vehicle, coming
from some far-away plantation, was drawn by a gay four-in-hand, and the
drivers of such equipages, negroes always, showed a haughty scorn of
their black fellow-men w