"Why, Mrs. Boyd!" and Wilson’s tone and surprised glance at the drummer caused that dapper young man to prick up his ears and move nearer; "why, it’s the best brand I handle, and you said the last gave you particular satisfaction, so I naturally—" "Well, I don’t want it; I didn’t order it, and I don’t intend to have you nor no one else unloading stuff in my front yard whenever you take a notion and want to make money by the transaction. Deduct that from my bill, and tell me what I owe you. I want to settle in full." "But—but—" Wilson had never seemed to the commercial traveller to be so much disturbed; he was actually pale, and his long hands, which rested on the smooth surface of the counter, were trembling—"but I don’t understand," he floundered. "It’s only the middle of the month, Mrs. Boyd, and I never run up accounts till the end. You are not going _off_, are you?" "Oh no," and the woman pushed back her bonnet and eyed him almost fiercely, "you needn’t any of you think that. I’m going to stay right on here; but I’ll tell you what I am going to do, George Wilson—I’m going to buy my supplies in the future at Darley. You see, since this talk of burning the very bench I sit on in the house of God, which you and your ilk set and listen to, why—" "Oh, Mrs. Boyd," he broke in, "now don’t go and blame me for what Brother Bazemore said when he was—" "_Brother_ Bazemore!" The woman flared up and brought her clinched hand down on the counter. "I’ll never as long as I live let a dollar of my money pass into the hands of a man who calls that man brother. You sat still and raised no protest against what he said, and that ends business between us for all time. There is no use talking about it. Make out my account, and don’t keep me standing here to be stared at like I was a curiosity in a side-show." "All right, Mrs. Boyd; I’m sorry," faltered Wilson, with a glance at the drummer, who, feeling that he had been alluded to, moved discreetly across the room and leaned against the opposite counter. "I’ll go back to the desk and make it out." She stood motionless where he had left her till he came back with her account in his hand, then from a leather bag she counted out the money and paid it to him. The further faint, half-fearful apologies which Wilson ventured on making seemed to fall on closed ears, and, with the receipted bill in her bag, she strode from the house. He followed her to the door and stood looking after her as she angrily trudged back towards her farm. "Well, well," he sighed, as the drummer came to his elbow and stared at him wonderingly, "there goes the best and most profitable customer I’ve had since I began selling goods. It’s made me sick at heart, Masters. I don’t see how I can do without her, and yet I don’t blame her one bit—not a bit, so help me God." III Wilson turned, and with a frown went moodily back to his desk and sat down on the high stool, gloomily eying the page in a ledger which he had just consulted.