“I ain’t purtendin’ I’m better ’n other men. I never _could_ git religion. I ain’t nigh good enough fur ye,—only I think mo’ of ye. I’m mean ’bout some things. I couldn’t holp but think, whenst I hearn ’bout Mink, ez now ye’d gin him up. I warn’t _bodaciously_ glad, but I couldn’t _holp_ thinkin’ ’twar better fur ye an’ me. Ye’d be happier married ter me, Lethe, than ter him, enny time.” “I ain’t never goin’ to marry you-uns, Ben,” she said drearily. “An’ now ye hev hed yer say, an’ thar’s no use a-jawin’ no mo’ ’bout’n it.” She turned to go in. Tige was already scratching at the door, as eager for the fire as he had been for his supper. She glanced at Ben over her shoulder, with some appreciation of his constancy, some pity for his disappointment. “Ye hed better go make a ch’ice ’mongst some o’ them gals in the cove,” she suggested. He cast a glance of deep reproach upon her, and followed her silently into the house. Their return was the occasion of some slight flutter in the home circle, in which had prevailed the opinion that the young folks out in the cold “war a-courtin’.” All relics of the supper were cleared away; the fire leaped joyously up the chimney. L’onidas and Lucindy were asleep. The baby in his night-gown, all unaware that he cut an unpresentable figure before company, pounded up and down the floor, unmolested. The pipes were lighted. As Ben Doaks leaned down to scoop up a coal from the fire, his face was distinct in the flare, and Mrs. Jessup noted the disappointment and trouble upon it. Mrs. Sayles too deduced a sage conclusion. A glance was exchanged between the two women. Then Mrs. Jessup, with a view to righting matters between these young people, whom fate seemed to decree should be lovers, asked abruptly, “Did ye tell Lethe the news ’bout Mink?” “Naw,” Doaks responded, somewhat shortly. “I ’lowed she knowed it long ago.” “Naw, she don’t,” said Mrs. Jessup; “none o’ we-uns hyar on the mounting knowed it.” She paused to listen to the wind, for it was astir without. A hollow, icy cry was lifted in the dark stillness,—now shrill and sibilant, now hoarsely roaring, then dying away in the distance, to be renewed close at hand. The boughs of the bare trees beat together. The pines were voiced with a dirge. The porch trembled, and the door shook. “Why, Lethe,” resumed Mrs. Jessup, turning toward the girl, as she sat in a low chair in the full radiance of the firelight, “Mink ain’t out’n jail. The rescuers never tuk him out.” The color left Alethea’s face. Her doubting eyes were dilated. Mrs. Jessup replied to the expression in them.