Fannin shook his head sadly. "Nothin’; it wus thar, an’ I hain’t no way o’ provin’ I didn’t put it thar." That was true, and gossip was rife throughout the settlement, and the members of Cool Spring Church met in solemn conclave to "deal" with the erring young man, who persisted in denying his guilt, thereby adding the sin of a lie to the sin of stealing. He lost his situation on the railroad, he lost his friends, and seemed to sink to the lowest ebb of fortune. But his trials put a new spirit into him, or else called forth a great deal of latent strength, for he met the slights of his associates and neighbors with quiet dignity and went to work energetically on his farm. "I ’lowed you ’ud be a-huntin’ a new home," said one of his neighbors to him, eying him curiously. "No, I’m goin’ ter stay right t’ hum," he replied doggedly. "He’s er turrible sinner," said the gossips on learning his determination to remain at his old home. Those long summer days were wretched ones to Bet Crow. She devised a thousand plans for clearing her lover, but they all came to naught. She firmly believed Bill Sanders had caused the trouble, though why or how she could not determine. He had been one of her most ardent admirers, and betrayed as much anger as disappointment when she refused to "keep cump’ny" with him, but she did not connect that with Tom’s disgrace. After that one afternoon visit her lover did not come again to see her, and if they met accidentally at church or elsewhere, they only exchanged the briefest and quietest greeting, but eyes may speak as well as lips, and there were glances eloquent and sweet to both. Bet did not parade her feelings, and people said she had come to her senses at last, and had sent "that triflin’ Tom Fannin erdrift." One day Bill Sanders stepped boldly up and asked permission to walk home from meeting with her. She curtly refused. "What’s the matter, Bet? It’s onjest to treat me in sech er way ’thout er cause," he said in wounded tones. "You know I can’t be a-wantin’ enny o’ yer comp’ny," she said, and before the righteous anger of her eyes he shrank back abashed. The summer passed slowly—dewy dawns, languid sunlit noons, and dusky evenings. The corn ripened, and the cotton-fields promised a fair yield. Tom Fannin worked steadily, early and late, as though finding in constant occupation a panacea for his troubles. "He’ll soon git tired o’ that; min’ what I say," said one prophet, "an’ go ter idlin’ round ag’in." But he did not, growing thin and brawny with constant toil. But the change had come too late. The charge of theft could neither be forgiven nor forgotten in that community. Farmer Crow carefully refrained from mentioning Tom Fannin’s name to his daughter since the morning he sat on the fence and talked with Mr. Jim Edwards. But his shrewd, kindly eyes observed the young man’s demeanor with approval. "He’s got more grit than we calkerlated on," he mused. At last he broached the subject to Bet.