“Emarine,” he said, at last, very quietly, “I love yuh an’ yuh know it. An’ yuh love me. I’ll alwus be good to yuh an’ see that choo ain’t emposed upon, Emarine. An’ I think the world an’ all of yuh. That’s all I got to say. I can’t see what ails yuh, Emarine.... When I think o’ that day when I asked yuh to marry me.... An’ that night I give yuh the ring”—the girl’s eyelids quivered suddenly and fell. “An’ that moonlight walk we took along by the falls.... Why, it seems as if this can’t be the same girl.” There was such a long silence that Mrs. Endey, cramping her back with one ear pressed to the keyhole of the door, decided that he had won and smiled dryly. At last Emarine lifted her head. She looked at him steadily. “Did you, or didn’t you, tell your mother I’d have to do the knucklin’-down?” He shuffled his feet about a little. “Well, I guess I did, Emarine, but I didn’t mean anything. I just did it to get a little peace.” The poor fellow had floundered upon an unfortunate excuse. “Oh!” said the girl, contemptuously. Her lip curled. “An’ so you come an’ tell me the same thing for the same reason—just to get a little peace! A pretty time you’d have a-gettin’ any peace at all, between the two of us! You’re chickenish—an’ I hate chickenish people.” “Emarine!” “Oh, I wish you’d go.” There was an almost desperate weariness in her voice. He picked up the ring with its shining garnet stars, and went. Mrs. Endey tiptoed into the kitchen. “My back’s about broke.” She laughed noiselessly. “I swan I’m proud o’ that girl. She’s got more o’ me in her ’n I give her credit fer. The idee o’ her a-callin’ him chickenish right out to his face! That done me good. Well, I don’t care such an awful lot if she don’t marry him. A girl with that much spunk deserves a _gov’nor_! An’ that mother o’ his’n ’s a case. I guess her an’ me ’d ’a’ fit like cats an’ dogs, anyhow.” Her lips unclosed with reluctant mirth. * * * * * The next morning Emarine arose and went about her work as usual. She had not slept. But there were no signs of relenting, or of regret, in her face. After the first surreptitious look at her, Mrs. Endey concluded that it was all settled unchangeably. Her aspiring mind climbed from a governor to a United States senator. There was nothing impossible to a girl who could break her own heart at night and go about the next morning setting her heels down the way Emarine was setting hers. Mrs. Endey’s heart swelled with triumph. Emarine washed the dishes and swept the kitchen. Then she went out to sweep the porch. Suddenly she paused. A storm of lyric passion had burst upon her ear; and running through it she heard the words—“_Sweet—oh—Sweet—my heart is breaking!_” The girl trembled. Something stung her eyes sharply. Then she pulled herself together stubbornly. Her face hardened. She went on sweeping with more determined care than usual.