There was a womanliness in her manner of speech that set him wondering. Was it the reminder of the minister’s wife that so suddenly changed her? Perhaps, after all, it was not Honey, but Archie who was the cause of the new gentleness. She was trying to prepare herself for that new life with Archie; that was it. “Well, little girl,” he said lightly, “then I will go; but I shall keep track of you, and I shall see you sometimes.” Sometimes! He who had been a part of her daily life for all these months would see her only sometimes, just as she was learning his worth and her own dependence upon him. She laid her cheek against Honey’s hair, and the touch gave her comfort. “Poor little baby,” she said, “I wonder whether your mother is grieving for you. I almost hope he has no mother.” “Perhaps he has not. Would you like to know?” “We ought to know.” “We have tried to find out, you remember, but we can try again. I am going up the river a short distance to-morrow,--now that the water has subsided, it will be safe to go--and I’ll make inquiry of every one along the way. Dod Hunter knows every one, and he may be able to tell. I am going his way.” “Oh!” “I heard of some good land in that direction and I want to look it up.” “Across the river?” “Yes. Have you seen the M’Cleans lately?” he asked abruptly. “I saw them Sabbath.” “Have they heard from Archie?” “Not yet; they expect to any day now. I miss Archie,” she said simply. “I should think you would; he was by far the best of the lads around here. But some day, you know--” “What?” “Did I not say just now that you were fast becoming fitted to be a minister’s wife?” “Thank you.” The voice was very low. They were both silent for a time, and then Parker left her with the evening’s sunshine in her hair. Why, now that he must leave her, had the girl suddenly appeared so fair to him? This new sweetness sat well upon her. How deeply blue were her eyes, and what tender lights came into them when she spoke of little Honey. Yes, it was better that he should go now--at once; later it might be harder. A minister’s wife she would be, and as the years passed by and she had learned her lessons of patience and unselfish devotion, how lovable she would become to those of her husband’s congregation. “I am a middle-aged man in her eyes,” he said aloud, “and it would be cruel to disturb her little tender heart now when all is settled for her, and yet--and yet--” He stood so long leaning on the fence that Agnes, watching him, wondered a little. “He is thinking of home, maybe, and of his sister. He will be so lonely off by himself and--oh, I shall be lonely, too. Oh, Honey, I, too. Polly has her Jimmy, and poor father does not know, and if they take you,--oh, Honey, if they take you,--how can I stand it? But there is mother,” she said presently; “she will be coming soon.” “Mammy,” said Honey. “Dad put Honey in a tree, an’ it sailded away. I lubs Nanny an’ I ’ants my supper.”