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“And it was here they found my little wanderer,” fondly exclaimed Roye Howard. “I should never, probably, have known true happiness but for the vagabond who stole my Daisy!”

The girl’s face clouded for a moment.

“Are you willing, Roye, to take me with this mystery hanging over me? If there is nothing hid that shall not be revealed, how do we know at what moment some revelation may come upon us that will dash our hopes to the earth?”

“Never, never!” impetuously replied the youth. “Nature cannot so belie herself as to make a blot or stain possible to her fairest creation.”

Blushing beneath his admiring gaze, and thrilling with pleasure at his words, Daisy proceeded to repeat all that she had ever remembered of her home and parents. A large house, a doll as big as herself, and a tender face bending above her, comprised her store of reminiscences. Since the death of her foster mother she had remained with friends, and was soon to be united in marriage to Roye Howard, a rising young lawyer, reared in Lexington, and established at Lancaster only a few months.

Talking confidingly of their promised happiness, the pair lingered among the sylvan shades of the romantic spot till the waning sunlight bent their steps homeward.

Next day was the regular County Court day in the village. The public square was crowded with vehicles, live stock, and countrymen whose chief pleasure was to mix in motley crowds, and to whose fancy an uproar of some kind was ever welcome. On such occasions, in the somewhat lax administering of justice of those early times, the killing of a fellow creature seemed indeed a trifle light as air.

At a conspicuous corner of Danville street stood the house where Daisy Templeton had found a temporary home. A number of ladies, wives of the Judge and various lawyers, had assembled here to dine, a custom prevalent upon public occasions. The group were deeply engrossed in needle-work and cheerful conversation, when suddenly the crowds on the square began surging and clamoring as though the turbulence of an angry sea had been turned loose upon a peaceful plain, Shouts rose higher and higher, till at last a pistol shot resounded, and the ladies that had crowded to the front windows plainly distinguished the cry, “The Judge is killed! Jim Burns has shot Judge Pierce!” and the mob rushed toward the mouth of Danville street in pursuit of the desperado, a noted character of the county.

Quickly passing out the back door of the parlor and closing it behind her, Daisy reached the side door, opening on Danville street and heavily shaded with trees, and flung the door to just as a man, pale and terrified, darted in, almost throwing her to the floor.

“Save me!” was all he had breath to ejaculate.

“Up there!” she hurriedly exclaimed, pointing up the stairway toward the attic; then slamming the door against the mob who were pressing upon the steps, she turned the key in the lock and stood, awaiting she knew not what. All this was the work of a moment, while the ladies in the parlor were too intent upon watching the square for a glimpse of the Judge to know that so important a scene was being enacted just behind them. Mrs. Pierce had run down the front steps inquiring of every one if the report was true.

Meanwhile, as Daisy stood silent and alone in the little passage, her heart throbbing fast, the crowd outside beat upon the door and clamored for Jim Burns. At this moment Stanley Livingstone, the young man of the house, appeared from a bed-room in the rear where he had been administering a dose of sleep to a severe headache, and asked with more emphasis than grace.

“What the devil’s broke loose?”

She dared not tell him the truth.

“Oh, Stanley,” exclaimed she, much relieved, “they are after Jim Burns. They think he is here and are determined to force their way in. They say he has killed Judge Pierce!”