The building was a one-story affair made of hewn trees with the bark on. In the course of time much of this had fallen off leaving the bare wood now weatherbeaten, showing a dull grayish brown. A flimsy porch stood before it, the roof supported by posts of young chestnut-oaks. A board door opened into the main living-room. This was finished roughly with planed boards, but made rather attractive by a stone fireplace blackened by the smoke from countless fires. Here Bud did most of his cooking, though a room in the rear was intended to be a kitchen. Near the dog-irons stood a black tin coffee-pot, and on the mantel above were various earthen crocks which had served as cooking-utensils for three generations. A few cane-bottomed straight-back chairs, a table covered with cracked oilcloth, a small stove in the corner, the pipe braced with rusted wires, a rifle and a long-barreled shotgun fastened to the walls, a lithograph torn from an old patent-medicine calendar representing dimly an elderly couple peacefully paring fruit, were the only furnishings. On the wall to the right of the fireplace two doors indicated a cupboard. To the rear, back of this room, was the bedroom containing a four-poster rope bed covered with somewhat frayed and none too clean crazy-quilts above gray blankets. Outside, to the left, and sheltered by the eaves stood the spring-house supplied with the clearest of mountain water. Bud’s original idea was merely to sweep, but having done that much he went a little farther and applied hot water and soap to the floors, the furniture, and finally to the odds and ends of dishes. This not only filled in the spare time left from his farm duties, but it satisfied a newly developed craving. He was not doing this for himself. He was doing it for Roxie. In a way he was being of service to her. He was relieving her pretty hands from drudgery. But in so doing he was submitting to a standard which seemed to him like damned foolishness--as far as he alone was concerned--and swallowing a goodly amount of stubborn pride. This involved self-sacrifice. He was doing it, moreover, for another. This involved a conception of unselfishness. Bud had never been noted for either quality. And yet he took a tremendous satisfaction in his efforts. The task proved so congenial that he carried it far beyond his first intention. On the second day he mounted his mare in the rain and posted to the village store. His idea was to buy new oilcloth for the table and a fresh coffee-pot. Before he was done he had included towels, blankets, a cake of scented soap, and a supply of tinned goods. “Looks like you meant to git married,” suggested Ed Bingham, the storekeeper. “None o’ yo’ damned business if I am, is it?” frowned Bud. “No-o,” drawled Bingham with an instant desire to conciliate. “No-o, it ain’t.” “Then fergit it,” snapped Bud.