“Oh, mother,” said Alan, “you don't understand. Rayburn Miller is--” “Well, Adele will know how to manage him,” broke in the old lady, too full of her view of the romance to harken to his; “she ain't no fool, son. She 'll twist him around her finger if she wants to. She's pretty, an' stylish, an' as sharp as a brier. Ah, he's jest seen it all and wants her; you can't fool me! I know how people act when they are in love. I've seen hundreds, and I never saw a worse case on both sides than this is.” Going around to the stables to see that his horses were properly attended to, Alan met his uncle leaning over the rail-fence looking admiringly at a young colt that was prancing around the lot. “Christmas gift,” said the old man, suddenly. “I ketched you that time shore pop.” “Yes, you got ahead of me,” Alan admitted. The old man came nearer to him, nodding his head towards the house. “Heerd the news?” he asked, with a broad grin of delight. “What news is that?” Alan asked, dubiously. “Young Miss,” a name given Adele by the negroes, and sometimes used jestingly by the family--“Young Miss has knocked the props clean from under Miller.” Alan frowned and hung his head for a moment; then he said: “Uncle Ab, do you remember what I told you about Miller's opinion of love and women in general?” The old man saw his drift and burst into a full, round laugh. “I know you told me what he said about love an' women in general, but I don't know as you said what he thought about women in _particular_. This heer's a particular case. I tell you she's fixed 'im. Yore little sis has done the most complete job out o' tough material I ever inspected. He's a gone coon; he 'll never make another brag; he's tied hand an' foot.” Alan looked straight into his uncle's eyes. A light was breaking on him. “Uncle Ab,” he said, “do you think he is--really in love with her?” “Ef he ain't, an' don't ax yore pa an' ma fer 'er before a month's gone, I 'll deed you my farm. Now, look heer. A feller knows his own sister less'n he does anybody else; that's beca'se you never have thought of Adele follerin' in the trail of womankind. You'd hate fer a brother o' that town gal to be raisin' sand about you, wouldn't you? Well, you go right on an' let them two kill the'r own rats.” Alan and his uncle were returning to the house when Pole Baker dismounted at the front gate and came into the yard. Since becoming a landed proprietor his appearance had altered for the better most materially. He wore a neat, well-fitting suit of clothes and a new hat, but of the same broad dimensions as the old. Its brim was pinned up on the right side by a little brass ornament. “I seed Mr. Miller drive past my house awhile ago with Miss Adele,” he said, “an' I come right over. I want to see all of you together.” Just then Miller came out of the parlor and descended the steps to join them. “Christmas gift, Mr. Miller!” cried Pole. “I ketched you that time.”