“Oh, Mr. Jeff! Mr. Briggs!” said Miss Mayfield plaintively, “don't, please--don't spoil the best compliment I've had in many a year. You thought I was a child, I know, and--well, you find,” she said audaciously, suddenly bringing her black eyes to bear on him like a rifle, “you find--well?” What Jeff thought was inaudible but not invisible. Miss Mayfield saw enough of it in his eye to protest with a faint color in her cheek. Thus does Nature betray itself to Nature the world over. The color faded. “It's a dreadful thing to be so weak and helpless, and to put everybody to such trouble, isn't it, Mr. Jeff? I beg your pardon--your aunt calls you Jeff.” “Please call me Jeff,” said Jeff, to his own surprise rapidly gaining courage. “Everybody calls me that.” Miss Mayfield smiled. “I suppose I must do what everybody does. So it seems that we are to give you the trouble of keeping us here until I get better or worse?” “Yes, miss.” “Therefore I won't detain you now. I only wanted to thank you for your gentleness last night, and to assure you that the bear-skin did not give me my death.” She smiled and nodded her small head, and wrapped her shawl again closely around her shoulders, and turned her eyes upon the mountains, gestures which the now quick-minded Jeff interpreted as a gentle dismissal, and flew to seek his aunt. Here he grew practical. Ready money was needed; for the “Half-way House” was such a public monument of ill-luck, that Jeff had no credit. He must keep up the table to the level of that fortunate breakfast--to do which he had $1.50 in the till, left by Bill, and $2.50 produced by his Aunt Sally from her work-basket. “Why not ask Mr. Mayfield to advance ye suthin?” said Aunt Sally. The blood flew to Jeff's face. “Never! Don't say that again, aunty.” The tone and manner were so unlike Jeff that the old lady sat down half frightened, and taking the corners of her apron in her hands began to whimper. “Thar now, aunty! I didn't mean nothin',--only if you care to have me about the place any longer, and I reckon it's little good I am any way,” he added, with a new-found bitterness in his tone, “ye'll not ask me to do that.” “What's gone o' ye, Jeff?” said his aunt lugubriously; “ye ain't nat'ral like.” Jeff laughed. “See here, aunty; I'm goin' to take your advice. You know Rabbit?” “The mare?” “Yes; I'm going to sell her. The blacksmith offered me a hundred dollars for her last week.” “Ef ye'd done that a month ago, Jeff, ez I wanted ye to, instead o' keeping the brute to eat ye out o' house and home, ye'd be better off.” Aunt Sally never let slip an opportunity to “improve the occasion,” but preferred to exhort over the prostrate body of the “improved.” “Well, I hope he mayn't change his mind.”