“Yes, but ’tain’t nuthin’ but ten dollar fine, mebbe, an’ a few days in jail,”—she gasped,—“_ef_ they ketches me.” He looked at her with a swift, crafty brightness that was wonderfully like the little creature whose name he bore. “I wouldn’t keer fur that, though,” he added after a pause. “Bein’ in jail fur rollickin’ roun’ the kentry jes’ fur fun ain’t a disgrace, like fur stealin’ an’ sech. What pesters me so is studyin’ ’bout the old man and his mill, plumb ruined. Lord! Lord! I’d gin my mare an’ hogs an’ gun ef it hed never happened!” She stood meditative and motionless against the leafy background, all dark and restful verdure close at hand, opening into a vista of luminous emerald lightened in the distance to a gilded green where the sunshine struck aslant with a climax of gold. “I reckon ye think so, Reuben, but ye wouldn’t,” she said at last, with her fatal candor. He winced. He was both hurt and angry as he rejoined, “An’ why wouldn’t I?” “Why, ye be ’bleeged ter know ef ye war ter gin the old man yer mare an’ gun an’ hogs, he’d be more ’n willin’ ter gin it up agin ye. The mill stones air thar yit under the water, an’ he could sell that truck o’ yourn an’ build ez good a shanty ez he hed afore,—better, ’kase ’twould be new.” He looked down at her, tapping his heavy boot with the hickory switch in his hand. “Ye ain’t changed none, since we war promised to marry,” he said slowly. “Then ye war forever a-jawin’ an’ a-preachin’ at me ’bout what I done an’ what I oughter do, same ez the rider. Ye talk ’bout jewty ez brash ez ef _ye_ never hed none, same ez he does ’bout religion. He ain’t hurt with _that_, ef ye watch him fresk ’round when they air pourin’ him out a dram or settin’ out the table. That’s sech grace ez he hev got, but he kin talk powerful sober ter other folks; jes’ like you-uns. I’m sorry I ever tole ye about it, enny ways. I’m sorry I met up with ye this mornin’”— The girl’s face was as visibly pained as if he had cruelly struck her. He went on tumultuously, aggregating wrath and a sense of injury and a desire of reprisal with every word. “I’m sorry I ever seen ye! Ye ’mind me o’ that thar harnt o’ a Herder on Thunderhead the folks tells about Ef ye happen ter kem upon him suddint, an’ don’t turn back but ketch his eye, that year air withered. Nuthin’ ye plant will grow, an’ ef the craps air laid by they won’t ripen. He can’t kill ye; he jes’ spiles yer chance. An’ ye ’minds me o’ him.” “Oh, Reuben!” the girl cried, in deprecation. “Ye do,—ye do! I tole ye, ’kase I lowed mebbe ye mought holp me,—more fool me!—leastways ye mought be sorry. Shucks! And now I’m sorry I tole ye.”