"No, Ah thank ye, Mr. Baron. Ah always eats mine with Bud. But you-all go in an' get some, an' you'll fin' somebody to eat hit with when ye come back." In the other room the men crowded before a table upon which were piled paper bags of different sizes. Each man was taking two, one for himself and one for his partner. "This size poke is ten cents," insisted Bud, in the uproar, "'n this size is fifteen. They's good things in 'em all. The quality's the same, hit's the quantity makes the difference. Yes, they's devil ham san'wich. Ah know they is, 'cos Ah cut mah finger openin' a can fo' M'lissy this mo'nin'. Yes, they's cake, too. You, Hamp, that size is fifteen!" As Friedrich approached, a laugh went up at the expense of 'Gene Frady, who had taken a bag of each size. "Watch out which one 'Gene gives his wife," cried Bud, sarcastically. The babies on the bed, four of them, were aroused by the noise, and joined their voices thereto. Three older children, who were sleeping rosily under the covers, slumbered on peacefully. "One poke, or two, Mr. Baron? Ah'm proud to see you-all here," said Bud. "A poke is a bag, eh? Give me two pokes, if you please, Bud. Yes, the large ones." Returning to the dancing-room, he made his way to Mrs. Lance, Melissa's mother, who was sitting near the window. She was flattered into silence by the attention of the offered poke, and they ate the contents of their bags with solemnity. A figure moving in the dim light outside attracted Friedrich's attention. He put his head out of the window. The man came directly beneath, and looked up. "Ah, Pink, I thought that was you. I want to see you at some time." "Ah'll watch out fo' ye when you-all's unhitchin' yo' mule." "Very well. I'm going in a few minutes. You do not come in?" "No. Hit's M'lissy's party, 'n she 'n me ain' friends." "Here, take this, then." Friedrich dropped his partly filled poke into the ready, uplifted hand. "I had my supper very late to-night," he explained to Mrs. Lance, "and a man outside a party looks so forlorn, don't you think so?" "Some of 'em deserves hit," returned Mrs. Lance, laconically. "He's one." Von Rittenheim was fumbling with the halter-strap of his mule, when Pressley appeared beside him out of the shadow of a pine-tree. "Is that you, Pr-ressley? Do you r-ride or walk?" "Ah'm walkin'." "Then will I not mount." Friedrich slipped the reins over the mule's head, and led him out on to the highway. Pressley walked beside him. The stars shone brightly enough to make visible the open road. "Are you-all goin' to ask me about the rent, Mr. Baron? Bud 'n me's been pullin' fodder fo' a week. Hit's all ready in the upper field, 'n you c'n take yo' choice any time. They's good bundles, fo' han's to the bundle." "Thank you. No, it was not of that I was going to speak. I want to tell you that about six weeks ago--it was in August--I was up on Buzzard Mountain one night, and I fell asleep there."