“I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be any use. Emarine’s turrable set. ’F you hadn’t went an’ told your mother that if there was any knucklin’-down to be did between her an’ Emarine, Emarine ’u’d have to do it, you an’ her’d ’a’ b’en married by this time. I’d bought most ha’f her weddin’ things a’ready.” The young man gave a sigh that was almost a groan. He looked like one whose sin has found him out. He dropped into a chair, and putting his elbows on his knees, sunk his face into his brown hands. “Good God, Mis’ Endey!” he said, with passionate bitterness. “Can’t choo ever stop harpin’ on that? Ain’t I cursed myself day an’ night ever sence? Oh, I wish yuh’d help me!” He lifted a wretched face. “I didn’t mean anything by tellin’ my mother that; she’s a-gettin’ kind o’ childish, an’ she was afraid Emarine ’u’d run over ’er. But if she’ll only take me back, she’ll have ev’rything her own way.” A little gleam of triumph came into Mrs. Endey’s face. Evidently the young man was rapidly becoming reduced to a frame of mind desirable in a son-in-law. “Will you promise that, solemn, Orville Parmer?” She looked at him sternly. “Yes, Mis’ Endey, I will—solemn.” His tone was at once wretched and hopeful. “I’ll promise anything under the sun, ’f she’ll only fergive me. I can’t _live_ without ’er—an’ that’s all there is about it. Won’t choo ask her to see me, Mis’ Endey?” “Well, I do’ know,” said Mrs. Endey, doubtfully. She cleared her throat, and sat looking at the floor, as if lost in thought. He should never have it to say that she had snapped him up too readily. “I don’t feel much like meddlin’. I must say I side with Emarine. I do think”—her tone became regretful—“a girl o’ her spir’t deserves a gov’nor.” “I know she does,” said the young man, miserably. “I alwus knew _I_ wa’n’t ha’f good enough fer ’er. But Mis’ Endey, I know she loves me. Won’t choo—” “Well!” Mrs. Endey gave a sigh of resignation. She got up very slowly, as if still undecided. “I’ll see what she says to ’t. But I’ll tell you right out I sha’n’t advise ’er, Orville.” She closed the door behind her with deliberate care. She laughed dryly as she went up stairs, holding her head high. “There’s nothin’ like makin’ your own terms,” she said, shrewdly. She was gone a long time. When Orville heard her coming lumbering back down the stairs and along the hall, his heart stopped beating. Her coming meant—everything to him; and it was so slow and so heavy it seemed ominous. For a moment he could not speak, and her face told him nothing. Then he faltered out—“Will she? Oh, don’t choo say she won’t!” “Well,” said Mrs. Endey, with a sepulchral sigh, “she’ll see you, but I don’t know ’s anything ’ll come of it. Don’t you go to bracin’ up on that idee, Orville Parmer. She’s set like a strip o’ calico washed in alum water.” The gleam of hope that her first words had brought to his face was transitory. “You can come on,” said Mrs. Endey, lifting her chin solemnly. Orville followed her in silence.