“Ef he air, he air barkin’ up the wrong tree, I kin tell ye!” exclaimed Mrs. Purvine, angrily. “Lethe Sayles air goin’ ter marry a town man,—leastwise that’s what all the kentry air sayin’. He ’lows she be plumb beautiful! An’ I always did think so, though she air my own niece,” as if this ought to be an obstacle. “I names no names,”—which would have been difficult, under the circumstances,—“but he air a town man, an’ hev got a high place, an’ air well off. Some folks don’t keer nuthin’ ’bout money, but I ain’t one of ’em. An’ he air o’ good folks,—fust-rate stock; an’ I sets store on fambly, too.” Mink was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees; his eyes burned upon her face; his pipe-stem was quivering in his gaunt hand. “Whar did she meet up with him?” “Down in Shaftesville, when she went ter testify fur you-uns,” said Mrs. Purvine. Then, with her sudden felicity of inspiration. “He seen her fust in the court-room, an’ he war smitten at sight.” She could not accurately define the impression she was making. But she grew a little frightened as she watched the keen, clear-cut face, changing unconsciously, responsive to her intimations: his wild dark eyes, in no sort tamed or dimmed, dwelt steadily on the white vistas of the fire; his fine red hair was tossed back, curling on his collar. As she looked at him, constrained to note how handsome he was, she wished very heartily, poor woman, that that mythical fortunate suitor had added to the charming qualities with which she had endowed him the simple essential, existence. Mink burst suddenly into a satiric laugh, startling to hear. Mrs. Purvine turned upon him, the gourd trembling in her hand. “Ye ain’t got no manners, Mink Lorey,” she said, trying to resume her note of superficial severity. “What be ye a-laffin’ at?” “Jes’ at thoughts,” he said enigmatically; “thoughts!” “Thoughts ’bout me, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Purvine aggressively. “Naw; jes’ ’bout Lethe an’ that thar town man.” He whirled from the fire, and walked up and down the floor with his hands in his pockets. “Waal, don’t ye say no mo’ ’bout’n him,” said Mrs. Purvine, desirous of contemplating him no longer, “an’ don’t ye ax me who he be—fur I won’t tell ye!” “Thar ain’t no need ter ax ye; I _know_.”