“Arter the warpin’ ars. They war loaned ter aunt Dely, an’ she hain’t got but one steer ter haul ’em home. So Buck hed ter go.” The ox had reached up his dun-colored head for the leaves, all green and flecked with golden light. She had loosed her hold upon the rope, and seriously gazed at Mink. “I war down ter Crosby’s yestiddy evenin’,” he observed, watching her. “I hopes ye enjyed yerse’f,” she said, with tart self-betrayal. He laughed a little, and turned the reins in his hands. He relished infinitely the sight of the red and angry spot on either cheek, the spark in her eye. “I did,” he said jauntily, noting the effect of his words. “I seen Elviry.” She made an effort at self-control. “Waal,” she returned, calmly, although her voice trembled a little, “I hope ye kin agree with her better ’n ye ever done with me. We warn’t made fur one another, I reckon, no-ways.” “Oh, I hain’t never axed Elviry; ’tain’t never gone ez fur ez that. I ’lowed ez mebbe ye an’ me mought make it up some day.” He was only trying her, but the vaunted feminine intuition did not detect this. Her cheek crimsoned. Her eyes were full of liquid lights. She laughed, a low gurgling laugh of happiness, that, nevertheless, broke into a sob. “I dunno ’bout that,” she said, evasively, belying the rapture in her face. She was very beautiful at the moment A cultivated man, versed in the harmonies of line and color, tutored to discriminate expressions and gauge feelings and recognize types, might have perceived something innately noble in her, foolish though the affection was which embellished her. Even he was impressed by it. “I hev never axed nobody but ye,” he said. “Not even arter we quar’led.” He was not bound by this, which he knew full well, and it promised nothing. But it held her love and loyalty for him, if ever he should want them. Nevertheless, while he piqued himself on his domination, he was under her influence at the fleeting moment when he was with her. Perhaps her presence induced some tender affinity for the better things. He said with a sigh, “I hev done gone an’ got in a awful scrape, Lethe. I reckon nobody never hed sech a pack o’ troubles in this worl’.” With a sort of pitying deprecation of the wiles of old Tobias Winkeye she gravely listened. Once she unconsciously put up her hand and stroked his mare. He was petulant, like a spoiled child, when he told how he only meant a jest and such woful destruction had ensued. “An’ me so boozy I dunno _what_ I done. An’ that thar pore old man! An’ his mill plumb ruined! An’ all his gran’chillen an’ Tad ter keer fur!” Her face had become very pale. Her voice trembled as she said,— “Ain’t sech agin the law, Reuben?” She always called him by his name, rather than the sobriquet his pranks had earned. He was unfamiliar with himself thus dignified, and it gave him an added sense of importance.