she lingered yet a moment to select the brown holland skirt and yellow
sunbonnet she had worn when she first saw him. And she had only seen
him twice! Only _twice_! It would be cruel, too cruel, not to see him
again!

She crept softly down the stairs, listening to the long-drawn
breathing of her father in his bedroom, and then, by the light of a
guttering candle, scrawled a note to him, begging him not to trust
himself out of the house until she returned from her search, and
leaving the note open on the table, swiftly ran out into the growing
day.

Three hours afterwards Mr. Madison Clay awoke to the sound of loud
knocking. At first this forced itself upon his consciousness as his
daughter's regular morning summons, and was responded to by a grunt of
recognition and a nestling closer in the blankets. Then he awoke with
a start and a muttered oath, remembering the events of last night, and
his intention to get up early, and rolled out of bed. Becoming aware
by this time that the knocking was at the outer door, and hearing the
shout of a familiar voice, he hastily pulled on his boots, his jean
trousers, and fastening a single suspender over his shoulder as he
clattered downstairs, stood in the lower room. The door was open,
and waiting upon the threshold was his kinsman, an old ally in many a
blood-feud--Breckenridge Clay!

"You _are_ a cool one, Mad!" said the latter in half-admiring
indignation.

"What's up?" said the bewildered Madison.