“I swear ter Heaven,” he cried, lifting his clenched right hand, “ez the Lord never afore built sech a fool ez me!” His self-pity and self-contempt were pathetic. “Ain’t I jes’ now been down yander ter Mis’ Purvine’s, an’ hear her tell how that man—oh, curse him, curse him!—air nigh dead in love with ye, an’ ye hed promised ter marry him!” “No, Reuben, no! ’Tain’t true. It air jes’ one o’ aunt Dely’s notions.” “An’ I kem hyar fit in mind ter kill ye dead,” he went on. “An’ the minit I see ye I furgit it all, an’ ye twist me round yer finger the same ez ef I war a bit o’ spun truck! G’way, Lethe!”—his voice broke; “don’t ye tech me.” He moved away, that she might not lay her remonstrant hand on his shoulder. “I wait on yer word like a child. Ye got me inter all this trouble through heedin’ yer wisdom ez turned out folly fur me. The foolishness o’ them ez air bereft air wise ter me! Ye done it!” He struck his hands despairingly together as he thought of his forlorn past. Perhaps he was the happier that his reflective moods were so rare. “I know, Reuben,—I know I did. But I never meant it. I jes’ wanted ye ter do what war right.” “Yes, but I hev got ter abide by the consequences o’ what _ye_ think air right,—don’t ye know it?” he demanded. “Ef I could hev suffered fur it, stiddier you-uns,” she declared, in tears, “I’d hev gone ter jail happy—happy.” His manner changed suddenly. He was at once shocked and displeased. “What air ye talkin ’bout, Lethe?” he said, in stern rebuke. “Don’t ye know thar ain’t no ’spectable wimmin in jail?” This had not occurred to her. She only sighed, and looked away at the shifting mist over the sunlit valley at the heavier masses of cloud dropping down upon the mountain above. A great eagle, near enough to show the gallant spread of his broad wings, swept from their midst, poised in the sunlight high above the cove, and swooped to the slopes below. Mink’s gaze followed the bird, his easily diverted interest quickening. Alethea strove to take advantage of the moment. “I jes’ want ter tell ye, Reuben”—she began. “I don’t want ye ter tell me nuthin’!” he cried, fixing on her his brown fiery eyes, with a bright red spark in their pupils. “Ye make a fool out’n me. Ye don’t let me hev no mind o’ my own. I reckon it air ’kase I be in love with ye,—an’ nobody else. All the t’other gals war in love with me.” There was none of his jaunty self-sufficiency as he said this,—only a dreary recognition of the fact. “Ye hev cut me out’n a heap, Lethe; enny one o’ ’em would hev been mighty willin’ ter put up with me an’ my ways. They never harried me none, ez ef I couldn’t do nuthin’ right. I reckon I’d hev been happy an’ peaceable married ter enny o’ them.”