“I have not yet thought of disposing of the Summit woods, Mr. Bowers,” said Mrs. Delatour, coldly, “but if I should do so, I will consult you. You must excuse the children, who see so little company, they are quite unmanageable when strangers are present. Cynthia, WILL you see if the servants have looked after Mr. Bowers's horse? You know Bob is not to be trusted.” There was clearly nothing else for Mr. Bowers to do but to take his leave, which he did respectfully, if not altogether hopefully. But when he had reached the lane, his horse shied from the unwonted spectacle of Bob, swinging his hat, and apparently awaiting him, from the fork of a wayside sapling. “Hol' up, mister. Look here!” Mr. Bowers pulled up. Bob dropped into the road, and, after a backward glance over his shoulder, said:-- “Drive 'longside the fence in the shadder.” As Mr. Bowers obeyed, Bob approached the wheels of the buggy in a manner half shy, half mysterious. “You wanter buy them Summit woods, mister?” “Well, per'aps, sonny. Why?” smiled Mr. Bowers. “Coz I'll tell ye suthin'. Don't you be fooled into allowin' that Cynthia wrote that po'try. She didn't--no more'n Eunice nor me. Mar kinder let ye think it, 'cos she don't want folks to think SHE did it. But mar wrote that po'try herself; wrote it out o' them thar woods--all by herself. Thar's a heap more po'try thar, you bet, and jist as good. And she's the one that kin write it--you hear me? That's my mar, every time! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for po'try, and you'll make your pile, sure! I ain't lyin'. You'd better look spry: thar's another feller snoopin' 'round yere--only he barked up the wrong tree, and thought it was Cynthia, jist as you did.” “Another feller?” repeated the astonished Bowers. “Yes; a rig'lar sport. He was orful keen on that po'try, too, you bet. So you'd better hump yourself afore somebody else cuts in. Mar got a hundred dollars for that pome, from that editor feller and his pardner. I reckon that's the rig'lar price, eh?” he added, with a sudden suspicious caution. “I reckon so,” replied Mr. Bowers, blankly. “But--look here, Bob! Do you mean to say it was your mother--your MOTHER, Bob, who wrote that poem? Are you sure?” “D'ye think I'm lyin'?” said Bob, scornfully. “Don't I know? Don't I copy 'em out plain for her, so as folks won't know her handwrite? Go 'way! you're loony!” Then, possibly doubting if this latter expression were strictly diplomatic with the business in hand, he added, in half-reproach, half-apology, “Don't ye see I don't want ye to be fooled into losin' yer chance o' buying up that Summit wood? It's the cold truth I'm tellin' ye.”