Coming down to a six o'clock dinner--finding Rube at the bottom of the stairs to attend upon her--finding the assembled company, including the Honorable Archibald, half-famished and yet kept waiting for their dinner, until the future mistress of the Bigge House put in an appearance, Mell began more clearly to estimate her own importance--her own, but through Rube. Her beauty, her wit, they were her own; but they had availed her little before her betrothment to Rube. Especially was she impressed with this aspect of the case, when, hanging upon his arm, she entered the brilliant drawing-room to become immediately the bright particular star of the social heavens, the cynosure of all eyes; to be immediately surrounded by flattering sycophants; to be pelted with well-bred raillery for her tardiness and sleepy-headedness; to be bowed down to and reverenced and waited upon and courted and admired by these high-born people--she, old Jacob Creecy's daughter, but the future wife of the young master of this lordly domain. And Jerome expected her to give all this up--did he? And to give it up whether he gave up Clara, or not? Jerome was simply crazy--and she would be a good deal crazier herself before he caught her doing it! Mell still has an eye to the main chance. Mell still "tuck arter her ole daddy!" * * * * * The summer wanes. The ripened grain is harvested and the chaff falling from the sheaves on the threshing floor; the patient teams sniff the first cool breeze and put their shoulders to the wheel; the wagons are heaped in corn; the fields grow white for the picking. In the windings of green valleys yellow leaves and red play fast and loose amid the green, and go fluttering to the ground; the deer stalks abroad; glad hunters blow their horns, and the unleashed hounds are joyful at the scent of noble prey.