It was a final instinct of caution that made the vendor, a few moments later, as Nixon returned from the hitched buckboard for the leather mittens he had accidentally left on the window-sill, whisper hoarsely, "Is he good for it, Jack?" "Good for it!" Nixon, drawing on the mittens, dealt Jimmy Tomlinson such a congratulatory whack on the shoulder that the latter took two involuntary steps forward; "good for it, Jimmy! Why, Bill yonder could buy up the whole settlement, with Toddburn throwed in for good measure, if he had any use for it." "Well, I s'pose it's so, if you say it is, neighbor. He's your girl's man, and you ought to know, if anybody does. But somebody, I forget just who, was tellin' me he heard this Ware was goin' to run the farm himself, without hirin' any help. So naturally I figured, if that was so, he hadn't the money to pay a man." "No, it ain't that," said John Nixon, as he turned toward the door; "it's true that he don't intend to hire any more men than he has to, and it's true that he's going to work right along with the ones he does hire. But when you say why--I don't know. All I know is, Bill's just a-pawin' the air to get to a pitchfork. Ain't that always the way, Jim?--ain't it, now? Nobody satisfied. Them that has to buck wood, like you an' me, don't want to. Them that don't have to, is fairly bawlin' and pawin' up the sod, to get to a sawhorse." CHAPTER XXVII. THE SEWING MACHINE LOVEMAKER. "Here's somebody you ought to know, Daise," remarked Lovina Nixon, coming in from feeding the calves: "Look down the road there." Daisy turned from her ironing and crossed to the window. "Yes, that's Dex," she said, coolly, as she looked out, "I can see the sewing-machine in the back of the rig, as plain as anything. Who would that be, with him, Mother? Oh, yes, I see--it's that Mrs. Rourke. Is she as flirty as ever?" "Oh, she just _acts_ flirty," Lovina answered, sticking up for her old crony, "nothin' wrong about Jen. She likes the men, an' she's full of the ol' Nick. But it's just fun, with her--that's all." Presently the buggy of Dex Coleman, the agent who was responsible for district sewing machine sales, drew up in the yard. On the seat of it were two persons--a young man with a smooth face and red lips, and his hat a little to one side, and a buxom woman of about forty-five, with a color like a girl and a hand that slapped her knee as she tilted back her head and laughed. _Her_ hat was also a little on one side--pushed into that position by a playful attempt of Mr. Coleman to kiss her. "Well, I'm sorry the drive is ended," the latter was saying, as, having jumped out of the buggy, he reached up a chivalrous hand to assist down the healthy weight of Mrs. Jenny Rourke.