Pity for the man he had betrayed melted his heart. At this moment how slight seemed the provocation! Elisha Cole had as much right to Armindy’s favor as he could claim. On the upper side of Rock Creek, just under the great cliff rising boldly toward the clouds, a clump of laurel bushes in full bloom hung over the stream, the opening buds a fine delicate pink, the wide-opened flowers faded to dull white. Ephraim’s eyes fell on them, and his face contracted with a keen thrill of pain as he remembered Armindy standing by the spring in the moonlight, and fastening a spray of laurel in her hair. Flushed from the dance, radiant with triumph, she had no thought for him—no kind words. Nevertheless, his heart softened toward her; he writhed as he thought of the sorrow he had laid up for her. He had lost account of time in the midst of his bitter reflections, and a sun-ray, striking across his face, startled him. He sprang into the saddle, and rode out of the highway into the settlement road leading through Beaver Cove. The Hudgins lived on that road, at the foot of Bush Mountain, in an old log-cabin built in the "double-pen" fashion, with an open entry, and in the rear a rude kitchen. Below the house lay a freshly cleared field, the fence skirting the roadside, and as he drew near, Ephraim heard Armindy singing an old baptismal hymn in a high, clear voice, making abrupt little pauses to say "Gee!" or "Haw!" or "Get up there!" to the ox she was driving before the plow. Last night she danced the "hoe-down" with spirit and grace, the belle of the party; to-day she plowed in her father’s corn-field, barefooted, and clothed in a faded homespun gown, singing for the mere joy of existence—of conscious life. She had on a deep sunbonnet, and coarse woolen gloves covered her hands—strong, supple hands, grasping the plow-handles like a man’s. She reached the end of the row just as Ephraim drew near, and looked over the fence at him with a smile and a blush. "Good mornin’, Eph’um," she cried in a conciliatory tone. "You look as if you had been out all night." "I have." "Law! what for? At the ’stillery?" Her voice dropped to a softer key. "No." She looked attentively at his sad, haggard face, then took off her bonnet and fanned herself. "Are you mad at me, Eph’um?" "No; I ain’t mad now, Armindy." "Then what makes you look so—so strange?" "I was mad last night." She turned the cool loam of the freshly opened furrow over her naked feet, a faint smile lurking in the corners of her mouth. He saw it, but did not feel angry. "Good-by, Armindy," he said gently. "I didn’t mean anythin’ last night, Eph’um," she said hastily, sobered again by the gravity of his voice and manner. "I know how it was." "I don’t believe you do. I—" But he rode away while the defensive little speech remained unfinished on her lips. She looked after him, slowly replacing the bonnet on her head.