But at the stage office Miss Sally only wrote a few lines on a card, put it in an envelope, which she addressed to Mr. Joseph Corbin, and then seating herself with easy carelessness on a long packing-box, languidly summoned the proprietor. “You're always on hand yourself at Kirby station when the kyars come in to bring passengers to Pineville, Mr. Sledge?” “Yes, Miss.” “Yo' haven't brought any strangers over lately?” “Well, last week Squire Farnham of Green Ridge--if he kin be called a stranger--as used to live in the very house yo father”-- “Yes, I know,” said Miss Sally, impatiently, “but if an ENTIRE stranger comes to take a seat for Pineville, you ask him if that's his name,” handing the letter, “and give it to him if it is. And--Mr. Sledge--it's nobody's business but--yours and mine.” “I understand, Miss Sally,” with a slow, paternal, tolerating wink. “He'll get it, and nobody else, sure.” “Thank you; I hope Mrs. Sledge is getting round again.” “Pow'fully, Miss Sally.” Having thus, as she hoped, stopped the arrival of the unhappy Corbin, Miss Sally returned home to consider the best means of finally disposing of him. She had insisted upon his stopping at Kirby and holding no communication with the Jeffcourts until he heard from her, and had strongly pointed out the hopeless infelicity of his plan. She dare not tell her Aunt Miranda, knowing that she would be too happy to precipitate an interview that would terminate disastrously to both the Jeffcourts and Corbin. She might have to take her father into her confidence,--a dreadful contingency. She was dressed for the evening party, which was provincially early; indeed, it was scarcely past nine o'clock when she had finished her toilet, when there came a rap at her door. It was one of Mammy Judy's children. “Dey is a gemplum, Miss Sally.” “Yes, yes,” said Miss Sally, impatiently, thinking only of her escort. “I'll be there in a minute. Run away. He can wait.” “And he said I was to guv yo' dis yer,” continued the little negro with portentous gravity, presenting a card. Miss Sally took it with a smile. It was a plain card on which was written with a pencil in a hand she hurriedly recognized, “Joseph Corbin.” Miss Sally's smile became hysterically rigid, and pushing the boy aside with a little cry, she darted along the veranda and entered the parlor from a side door and vestibule. To her momentary relief she saw that her friends had not yet arrived: a single figure--a stranger's--rose as she entered.