"You're a durned wise 'n'!" he said, presently. "S'firy's sot ag'in yo' somehow, but I's jok'n' w'en I said I'd 'low she'd 'vite yo' back to Baldy. She wouldn't do sich a vi'lent thin' as that, see'n' as how she's got no airthly complaint ag'in yo', 'cep'n' you're a young man 'n' good-look'n', 'n'"--lowering his voice and nodding toward the Dryad, who sat apparently absorbed in her copybook--"she don't 'low to ever let no man make love to that gal, 'n' she's skeerd o' yo' on that 'count--see?" "Gran'fer, I smell some'n' burnin'!" called Celeste. The old man turned with a trembling, low-voiced "Good God!" and bolted into the house, and instantly I heard a tin cover clatter on the kitchen floor. "Whut'd you tell Gran'fer w'en you took 'im over there?" asked Eve, when I was again beside her. "The truth," I replied, not altogether relishing a like confession to her. "Tell me, too!" she demanded, at once. "Suppose I won't?" I parried, grasping the opportunity offered to weigh her character in different scales. She thought a moment, with a queer little squinting of the eyes. "Well, if you won't--I don't keer!" It was not pique, but perfect candor. "I told him that I waited down yonder in the woods until Granny went to church," I said. She smiled, and spread the copybook out afresh. "You needn't 'a' done that. I've had a talk with Granny, 'n' she's goin' to let you come, same as she does Buck ... I p'suaded 'er." "Bless your heart, Dryad! How did you manage it?" "Granny'll do mos' anything for me," she answered, simply. "I tol' 'er that you jes' wanted to learn me, 'n' that I wanted to learn--so bad; 'n' that it wouldn't cost nothin'. So she ast Father John, 'n' he said it'd be all right. He said he knowed you." "Yes, I've met Father John--and his niece." "I don't like her," said Celeste, turning the leaves idly. "Why don't you like her, Dryad?" "'Cause--'cause--oh, jes' 'cause!" She pouted her lips slightly, and shook her head. So she, too, had that unanswerable reason which all women can claim. "I feel sorry for her, because I don't think she has been happy. She has lived in cities all her life, and the cities have taken something from her they can never give back." "Whut?" "All things which you, living here in the hills, possess, and which are a woman's most precious gifts; purity, innocence, womanhood." "I don't know 'zackly whut you mean." "I shan't try to put it into simpler words just now, Dryad. But in the eyes of all true people you are worth more than a thousand Beryl Dranes." She pursed her lips and gave a whistle of astonishment. "Has Buck been here lately?" I asked. "Not since I seen--I saw you on the log bridge."