All these wandering thoughts were put to flight by the sudden wail of a child.

"Hit's Hallie," said a woman's voice from the corner. "She hain't dead.

Not near. Betsy Anne, make a light."

Florence heard a shuffle in that corner, sensed a groping in the dark, then saw a trembling tube of paper thrust against one of the live coals.

At once the coal began to brighten.

"Someone blowing it," she thought.

Five seconds later the tube burst into bright flame, throwing fantastic shadows over the room. A few seconds more and a candle was found. It illumined the cabin with a faint but steady light.

Scarcely knowing whether to flee or stay, Florence glanced hurriedly around her. The giant, having risen to his knees, was bending over the child who was now silently sobbing. The two women were standing nearby and in the corner was the last person Florence had expected to see.

"Bud Wax!" she exclaimed.

Then catching the look of pain on his face, she said with a look of compa.s.sion.

"You're hurt!"

"I-I guess it's broken," said the boy, touching the arm that hung limp at his side.

"But why-"

"I-I thought he'd hurt you, and I-I couldn't-"

"You did it for me! You-" Florence was beginning to understand, or at least to wonder. Bud had done this-Bud, of all persons. Kin of her bitterest enemy, the boy whose choicest possession she had destroyed! And how had he come to be here at that moment? Her head was in a whirl.

"There's right smart of a rock right outside the door," the boy grinned.

"I were a watchin' from up there an' when I seed him grab yore arm I just naturally jumped. I reckon hit were to far."

"But if your arm is broken, it must be set."

"Yes'm, I reckon."

At that moment there was a sound of shuffling feet at the door. Turning about, Florence found herself staring into the face of a man, a face she recognized instantly. The beady eyes, hooked nose, unshaven chin-there could be no mistaking him. It was he who had twice frightened Marion and at one time all but driven little Hallie into hysterics.

"What more could happen in one crowded night?" she asked herself, deep in despair.

Strangely enough, Bud Wax was the one person in the room who brought her comfort. Oddly enough, too, the person she feared most was the one she saw for the first time that very moment, the man at the door.

Even as she stared at this man with a fascination born of fear, the man spoke:

"What you all so shook up about?" he drawled.

"Hit's Hallie," the grizzled old man said, running his hand across his brow. "She's come back. They brung her back. Might nigh kilt her, I reckon, then brung her back."

Florence's lips parted in denial, but no words came out. Her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. There she sat, staring dumbly, while a cheap nickel plated alarm clock on the mantelpiece rattled loudly away as if running a race with time, and faintly, from far away, there came the notes of some bird calling to his mate in the night.

At this moment, back in the whipsawed cabin, Marion found herself at once highly elated and greatly depressed.

"If only we can find the rest of them-a whole sack of them!" she whispered excitedly to herself one moment, and the next found herself pacing the floor, murmuring: "Where can they have gone? Why don't they come back?"

There was no connection between the two emotions which she was experiencing. The first had to do with a letter which had just been brought to her from the little postoffice down the creek; the last with the mysterious disappearance of Florence and Hallie.

The letter was from her friend, the curator at Field Museum. It read:

"Dear Marion:

You have made quite a find. How did you happen upon it? But then, I suppose one may find many rare articles back there in the c.u.mberlands so far from the main channels of commerce and life.

The gold piece you sent me is not properly a coin, but a token minted by a private individual. There are enough such tokens in bronze, but the gold ones are rare. Just why any were made is hard to tell. We know they were made, however. Two kinds are known to exist; one made in Georgia, the other in North Carolina.

You may not know it, but way back in 1830 gold was mined in Lumpkin County, Georgia, and Rutherfordton, North Carolina. Temple Reid, of Georgia, and a Mr. Bechtler of Rutherfordton, made their gold into tokens and the specimen you have found is a true sample of Georgia gold, very rare and quite valuable. Should you care to sell this one, and should you find others, I have no doubt they might be readily disposed of at something like sixty or seventy dollars for each piece."

"Sixty or seventy dollars!" Marion exclaimed as she read the letter for a third time. "At that rate a mere handful of them would be worth quite a small fortune, and even the price of one is not to be sneered at. It would help toward repairing the schoolhouse."

"It wouldn't go far," smiled Mrs. McAlpin. "That schoolhouse needs a new roof, a new floor, doors, windows, blackboards and seats. Otherwise it is a very good schoolhouse. But then, what is the use of your dreaming about that? Ransom Turner says the election is lost, and he should know."

"Yes, he should." A cloud spread over Marion's face as she sat down. The cloud was replaced by a frown as she sprang to her feet to pace the floor and exclaim for the fourth time:

"Where can they have gone? Why don't they come back?"

"Have no doubt," said Mrs. McAlpin, "that they went together to a cabin for supper or to spend the night."

They-Florence and Hallie-had indeed gone to a cabin to spend the night; but such a cabin, and such a night!

Marion knew that Mrs. McAlpin did not feel half the a.s.surance she tried to express. Little Hallie had disappeared, leaving no trail behind.

Florence had left the whipsawed cabin, saying she was going for a walk but would return for supper. She had not returned. Darkness had come, supper time had pa.s.sed. Their supper stood untouched and cold on the table.

"I still have hopes of finding the rest of that Georgia gold," said Marion, talking more to herself than to Mrs. McAlpin. "Perhaps it isn't all Georgia gold. There may be some Confederate gold mixed in with it.

One never can tell. It certainly would be thrilling to discover some real Confederate gold. I'm not at all satisfied with our search of the attic."

"Was there anything up there beside this one bit of gold?" On Mrs.

McAlpin's face there was such an amused smile as one might expect to find there had a child told her he meant to go in search of the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow.

"Nothing but a heavy old pounding mill," replied Marion.

"Why should one wish to store a pounding mill in an attic? They are always used out of doors."

"I don't know," said the girl thoughtfully. "Might be sort of an heirloom."

"Rather ponderous I should say."

Marion caught her breath. Uncle Billie had said that old block of a pounding mill was uncommonly heavy. Here was food for thought. The first thing in the morning she would go up there. She would-

At this moment her thoughts were cut short by a sudden burst of thunder that went rolling and reverberating down the mountain.