e did not know of
the approach of Rover, his good friend, until he felt his furry head rub
against his hand.

"Good friend," he said, looking into the eyes of the great brown dog,
"when you come to see me in this manner I always look for disastrous
results. What can it be now, old friend? Is your mistress well, or has a
calamity befallen her? Is her brother worse, or what has happened?"

The dog wagged his tail in a friendly fashion. Suddenly he looked toward
the road and barked. Wade glanced hastily in the direction indicated by
the dog's head and there, grazing leisurely beside the fence, was the
old brindle cow, the cow that had in times past brought him in close
touch with the once wild flower of the valley. A spark of joy leaped
into his sorrowful heart, for he knew that the mistress of the valley
would soon come in search of the cow, and he would be happy then. With
eyes cast in the direction of Peter Judson's home, he still sat
thinking, just thinking, unconsciously smoothing the hairy head of the
good old dog Rover, who seemed perfectly satisfied to sit on his
haunches and listen to the tinkling of the cowbells as the cows munched
grass lower down in the valley. Roundabout the little wild birds were
singing sweetly in their freedom, their joyous notes swelling through
the gathering gloom. No thought of trouble was in their hearts, no
sorrowful gleam came from their eyes. All was bright sunshine in their
lives. What if some poor wanderer was going to be murdered that night?
What if some luckless farmer should have his home burned from around him
or his horded tobacco and corn destroyed? What if some child or its
mother should wail out their sorrowful notes of discomfort and grief
before another day's sun shall have risen? Those things are nothing to
the lonesome little bird, which would continue its silent slumber
through the awful din of fire-fraught flame, or through the loud reports
of many rifles, or the yelling of the infuriated Riders as they rode
hastily through the midnight darkness on to do the terrible deed and
bring suffering to many unsuspecting victims. Those things were nothing
to them; they sang on gleefully. But the harmony of their song soon
died away, for there came through the stillness of the moment the soft
sweet tones of Nora Judson's voice as she wended slowly down the road in
search of old Brindle. Rover flopped his ears and wagged his tail, while
a gladsome whine emanated from his throat