He joined her before she had covered a third of the distance that separated the two plantations.

“Thank God, my darling!” he cried fervently, as he ranged up alongside of her.

“Then you weren’t sure of me, Charley?”

“No, I wasn’t sure, Betty—­but I hoped.  I have been haunting the road for more than an hour.  You are making one poor unworthy devil happy, unless—­”

“Unless what, Charley?” she prompted.

“Unless you came here merely to tell me that after all you couldn’t marry me.”  He put out his hand and covered hers that held the reins.  “I’ll never give you cause to regret it—­you know how I love you, dear?”

“Yes, Charley—­I know.”  She met his glance bravely.

“We are to go to the church.  Mr. Bowen will be there; I arranged with him last night; he will drive over with his wife and daughter, who will be our witnesses, dear.  We could have gone to his house, but I thought it would seem more like a real wedding in a church, you know.”

Betty did not answer him, her eyes were fixed straight ahead, the last vestige of color had faded from her face and a deathly pallor was there.  This was the crowning horror.  She felt the terrible injustice she was doing the man at her side, the depth and sincerity of his devotion was something for which she could make no return.  Her lips trembled on the verge of an avowal of her love for Carrington.  Presently she saw the church in its grove of oaks, in the shade of one of these stood Mr. Bowen’s horse and buggy.

“We won’t have to wait on him!” said Norton.

“No—­” Betty gasped out the monosyllable.

“Why—­my darling—­what’s the matter?” he asked tenderly, his glance bent in concern on the frightened face of the girl.

“Nothing—­nothing, Charley

They had reined in their horses.  Norton sprang to the ground and lifted her from the saddle.

“It will only take a moment, dear!” he whispered encouragingly in the brief instant he held her in his arms.

“Oh, Charley, it isn’t that—­it’s dreadfully serious—­” she said, with a wild little laugh that was almost hysterical.

“I wouldn’t have it less than that,” he said gravely.

Afterward Betty could remember standing before the church in the fierce morning light; she heard Mr. Bowen’s voice, she heard Charley’s voice, she heard another voice—­her own, though she scarcely recognized it.  Then, like one aroused from a dream, she looked about her—­she met Charley’s glance; his face was radiant and she smiled back at him through a sudden mist that swam before her eyes.

Mr. Bowen led her toward the church door.  As they neared it they caught the clatter of hoofs, and Tom Ware on a hard-ridden horse dashed up; he was covered with dust and inarticulate with rage.  Then a cry came from him that was like the roar of some mortally wounded animal.

“I forbid this marriage!” he shrieked, when he could command speech.