was obviated. Mr. Brace thought also that the vitiated quality of the
close air of a crowded saloon had a great deal to do with it--the excess
of carbon--hic--he begged their pardon--carbonic acid gas undoubtedly
rendered people "slupid and steepy." "But here, from the open window,"
he walked dreamily to it and leaned out admiringly towards the dark
landscape that softly slumbered without, "one could drink in only health
and poetry."

"Wot's that?" said Saunders, looking up.

"I said health and poetry," returned Brace with some dignity. "I
repeat"--

"No. I mean wot's that noise? Listen."

They listened so breathlessly that the soft murmur of the river seemed
to flow in upon them. But above it quite distinctly came the regular
muffled beat of horse-hoofs in the thick dust and the occasional rattle
of wheels over rocky irregularities. But still very far and faint,
and fading like the noises in a dream. Brace drew a long breath; Parks
smiled and softly closed his eyes. But Saunders remained listening.

"That was over OUR road, near the turnpike!" he said musingly. "That's
queer; thar ain't any of the boys away to-night, and that's a wagon.
It's some one comin' here. Hark to that! There it is again."

It was the same sound but more distinct and nearer, and then was lost
again.

"They're dragging through the river sand that's just abreast o'