It is difficult to say whether Mrs. Markle's archness, or Sal's woeful perspicuity, was most alarming to Gabriel. He rose; he would have flown, even with the terrible contingency of Mrs. Markle's hysterics before his eyes; he would have faced even that forcible opposition from Sal of which he fully believed her capable, but that a dreadful suspicion that he was already hopelessly involved, that something would yet transpire that would enable him to explain himself, and perhaps an awful fascination of his very danger, turned his irresolute feet into Mrs. Markle's sitting-room. Mrs. Markle offered him a chair; he sank helplessly into it, while, from the other room, Sal, violently clattering her dishes, burst into shrill song, so palpably done for the purpose of assuring the bashful couple of her inability to overhear their tender confidences, that Gabriel coloured to the roots of his hair. That evening Gabriel returned from his work in the gulch more than usually grave. To Olly's inquiries he replied shortly and evasively. It was not, however, Gabriel's custom to remain uncommunicative on even disagreeable topics, and Olly bided her time. It came after their frugal supper was over--which, unlike the morning meal, passed without any fastidious criticism on Gabriel's part--and Olly had drawn a small box, her favourite seat, between her brother's legs, and rested the back of her head comfortably against his waistcoat. When Gabriel had lighted his pipe at the solitary candle, he gave one or two preliminary puffs, and then, taking his pipe from his mouth, said gently, "Olly, it can't be done." "What can't be done, Gabe?" queried the artful Olly, with a swift preconception of the answer, expanding her little mouth into a thoughtful smile. "Thet thing."--"What thing, Gabe?" "This yer marryin' o' Mrs. Markle," said Gabriel, with an assumption of easy, business-like indifference. "Why?" asked Olly. "She wouldn't hev me." "What?" said Olly, facing swiftly round. Gabriel evaded his sister's eyes, and looking in the fire, repeated slowly, but with great firmness-- "No; not fur--fur--fur a gift!" "She's a mean, stuck-up, horrid old thing!" said Olly, fiercely. "I'd jest like to--why, there ain't a man az kin compare with you, Gabe! Like her impudence!" Gabriel waved his pipe in the air deprecatingly, yet with such an evident air of cheerful resignation, that Olly faced upon him again suspiciously, and asked--"What did she say?" "She said," replied Gabe, slowly, "thet her heart was given to another. I think she struck into poetry, and said-- "'My heart it is another's, And it never can be thine. "Thet is, I think so. I disremember her special remark, Olly; but you know women allers spout poetry at sech times. Ennyhow, that's about the way the spring panned out." "Who was it?" said Olly, suddenly. "She didn't let on who," said Gabriel, uneasily. "I didn't think it the square thing to inquire." "Well," said Olly.