Keep on looking till it does.

_Then_" he finished, with a barely perceptible scornful smile at the attorney, "_then_ we can decide on what had ought to be done." Six-Cross-Roads lay dark and steaming in the sun that morning.

The forge was silent, the saloon locked up, the roadway deserted, even by the pigs.

The broken old buggy stood rotting in the mud without a single lean, little old man or woman--such were the children of the Cross-Roads--to play about it.

The fields were empty, and the rag-stuffed windows blank, under the baleful glance of the horsemen who galloped by at intervals, muttering curses, not always confining themselves to muttering them.