"One pet at a time, Susan, is enough," teased Frances with a glance through the opened cabin door at Bill warming his "rhumatiz" limbs before a glowing fire and looking the picture of lazy comfort. Susan turned away discomfited, but only for an instant. "Hi-yi!" she cried, "who's dat comin' down de lane? 'Fore de Lawd if 'tain't Marse Edward. I 'clar'," she went on, watching Frances' reddening cheek with satisfaction, "he suttinly has been good to us. We's been hyar nigh 'pon fo' weeks, an' ebery now an' den-- Mornin', Marse Edward." Frances walked quickly down the narrow pathway to where Starlight was fastened to the fence. "Yuh needn't be in sech a hurry!" grumbled Susan. "Wait!" called young Montague, who had seen the manoeuvre. "I'm going into town for my mail!" he declared, soon as he flung himself from the horse; "don't you want to ride Lady? Here, Susan, I shot this, this morning; you can make Bill his rabbit stew now!" "La, Marse Edward, Bill suttinly will be glad." "How is he? You will wait a moment?" he hurried into the cabin and out again. The valley below lay bathed in misty sunshine, the green of the grass by the stream and the red tips of the branches on bordering willow and shrub showed where the February sun shone longest and strongest. To young Montague, valley and hazy mountain peaks and the hillside cabin were a fair winter's scene, and the girl waiting there by the gray weather-worn fence was the heart of it. "I will be ready in a moment," he declared, as with deft fingers he unbuckled the saddle-girth from his horse. "Is there anything else Bill would like?" he questioned, as he fastened Starlight's saddle on his own horse. Susan hesitated for a moment. "Any game?" "Bill, he did say," the old woman answered hesitatingly, "as how he was honing for a 'possum. Dey ain't good much now." "But a 'possum he shall have. Are you ready?" to Frances. He held his hand and tossed her into the saddle. "Good-by!" Frances called. "I'll be out again soon. Good-by!" The old darkey stood watching them. "Lawd, if eber two folks was made fer one 'nother," she said to herself, "dyar dey is; Miss Frances she's jis' naturally born to rule some man in dat sassy, sweet way she got, an' Marse Edward he look lak he suttinly would lak to be dat man; but Miss Frances," the old darkey shook her head, "I don't know 'bout her, dat I don't." Miss Frances was putting Lady through her paces, despite red clay and mire and shallow pools where the water yet stood. Heavy black clouds were shouldering above the mountain peaks; the wind was from the east and stung sharply against their faces. "It's going to rain," declared Frances, anxiously. "Oh, not to-day." Montague was seeing nothing of brown sodden fields or long stretch of red road; he was wondering, wondering if he dared translate to speech the wild beatings of his heart.