or subterfuge.
"Ah, Miss Sally! Good morning to you!" he cried, with one of his amatory ogles that always sent a cold chill over her and strongly aroused within her bosom a spirit of determined opposition. "I have been looking for you all the morning. Where have you been hiding yourself?" he asked, as he drove up to where she had reluctantly stopped on hearing her name called.
"Behind the stone wall," Sally was half tempted to answer, wishing, at the moment, that she could have availed herself of its protection in the present instance; but she only nodded gravely and said that she had been making a few purchases for her mother.
"I tried to overtake you early this morning," continued the Squire, glibly. "Your mother said you had been gone but a little while when I passed the gate. You must have walked pretty fast."
"I did," acknowledged Sally, with a covert smile. "It was cool and pleasant walking."
"Well, come! Put your bundles down in front and jump in," said her companion. "Riding's better than walking any day, and good company's better than either," he added, with a tender leer at her, which Sally pretended not to see.
There was nothing for it but to accept the proffered seat. She did not dare openly to offend the Squire by a refusal to ride with him, though she would willingly have chosen the long, warm walk, even with the additional burden of her bundles, in preference to his company. As her mother had said only that morning, it was through his influence that she had been appointed keeper of the New Pike Gate, and it was due to him she now kept it, so Sally civilly thanked him and got into the buggy.
"If I had counted on such good company, I would have had this old rattletrap cleaned up a bit," said the Squire, apologetically, as they drove off. "But, never mind!" he added, jocosely. "When we start out on our wedding trip, I'll buy a brand-new, shiny rig, out an' out."
"We?" echoed Sally, with a certain sharpness of tone.
"You don't suppose I'd care to go on a bridal trip alone, do you?" inquired the Squire, laconically, and with a wink of one watery eye.
"I'm afraid you will, if you depend on me to go along with you," answered Sally, dryly.
"Now, my dear, you surely wouldn't be that cruel?" said the Squire, edging a little closer to Sally, who as promptly moved away. "Haven't I been depending on your going all the while, and haven't I said that I wouldn't have any other girl but you, though there's plenty would be only too glad to go for the asking?"
"An' there's one that wouldn't," announced Sally, coolly.
"Then I can show her where she stands mightily in her own light," said the Squire, suddenly dropping into a more serious tone.
"How so?"
"By giving her some very good reasons why she should act differently."
"What reasons?" asked Sally, arousing to some slight show of interest.
"Well, now, we'll suppose, for instance, the girl to be you," began the Squire, argumentatively. "You and your mother are depending on the toll-gate for a living, and it makes you a comfortable one, at any rate. Did you know the toll-gate raiders were at work?" asked the Squire, abruptly.
The girl caught her breath with a quick start.
"No," she answered, quickly. "Where?"
"Right here in this very county. They burned a toll-house just on the boundary line only the other night, and cut down the pole of one gate in the edge of this county last night, so I was told today," said the Squire, impressively.
"I'm afraid we're going to have a deal of trouble over the matter before it's ended," he continued, thoughtfully, shrewdly following the impression he had evidently made on the mind of his hearer. "The spirit of lawlessness seems to be widely spreading."
"Do you think there's any danger of the raiders payin' a visit to the New Pike Gate?" questioned Sally, anxiously.
"I shouldn't be the least surprised," answered her companion, with a dubious shake of the head. "The night-riders seem determined to make way with all the toll-gates in this part of the country if they can."
"I can't think they would harm us," insisted Sally, "two poor, helpless women."
"Likely not, but if the raiders have made up their minds to have free roads, as they appear to have done, they would not hesitate to burn the toll-house over your heads, which would leave you and your mother without a shelter, don't you see?"
The Squire paused, and the girl sat buried in deep thought for some moments.
"In that case, what could you do or where could you go?" asked the Squire, at last breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
"Heaven only knows!" cried the girl, earnestly.
"Now, affairs stand just in this way," continued the Squire, craftily. "If the raiders should burn the toll-house—and it is a most probable thing, I fear—it would leave you two women in rather a bad plight. But if you'll only agree to marry me, why, there's a nice home waiting for you, and your mother will also have a comfortable shelter in her old age, and neither of you will have cause to worry about the future."
The Squire paused, but Sally made no answer. She knew full well that his words were quite true concerning the dependence of her mother and herself on the toll-gate for a living. She also knew that as long as the Squire entertained the faintest hope of ultimately winning her the gate was secured to her mother, and therefore she had not felt troubled on this score; but now that a new and unlooked-for danger threatened in the unusual and unexpected presence of the raiders, she tremulously asked herself, "What, indeed, if the toll-houses were destroyed, would become of her and her mother?"
The girl felt no fears for herself regarding the future—she was energetic and had been familiar with work all her life; it held no terrors for her; she could hire out—wash, cook, sew—perhaps some day marry the man of her choice when he should be in a position to take unto himself a wife; but, with her mother's welfare also to be considered, the matter grew far more complex.
"Don't you see just how matters stand?" asked the Squire, persuasively, almost tenderly, breaking the long silence.
Sally gravely nodded her head.
"I see," she answered, in a low tone.
CHAPTER IV.
It was close upon 10 o'clock at night—a late hour for a lonely traveler in this remote locality amid the hills—and Milton Derr was homeward bound. As he neared the vicinity of Alder Creek meeting-house, up in the hill country, another horseman came out of a lane into the public road just as he was passing.
Hailing a fellow voyager, as was the custom of the neighborhood, Derr recognized an acquaintance and promptly checked his horse until the other came alongside.
"Hello,
