"No," drawled Blatch. "Unc' Jep aimed to break off with me, and he left you the only one o' the family that dared speak with me. Mebbe you would like to write an' tell Wade?" "I don't know," sighed Judith hopelessly. "What's the use?" "Farewell," said Blatch, using a common mountain form of adieu. "I reckon Unc' Jep won't want to see me standin' around talkin' to ye. You tell Wade," significantly. "The sooner he gets Huldy out of his head the better for him. No use cryin' over spilt milk. They's as good fish in the sea as ever come out of it." He looked long at her downcast face. "Jude, the man that told me that about Bonbright," he said, speaking apparently on sudden impulse, "'lowed that the feller had left you--give ye the mitten. You're a fool ef ye let that be said, when his betters is wantin' ye." Without another word, without a glance, he turned and slouched swiftly away down the path behind the fringe of bushes by the creek side. The baptising was over. Judith, crossing the stream, saw her uncle's waggon, Beck and Pete already hitched to it, being loaded with Jim Cal and his tribe. Andy and Jeff were horseback with the Lusk girls. She hurried forward to join them and make ready for departure when, to her dismay, she encountered Drane at the foot of the slope coming toward her. "Wasn't that thar Blatchley Turrentine?" inquired the elder. The girl nodded. "I didn't see him in the church," Drane pursued. "I reckon he wasn't there," assented Judith lifelessly, making as though to pass on. "He jest came here to have speech with you, did he?" inquired the man, nervously, brushing his sandy whiskers with unquiet fingers. "I reckon he did," acknowledged Judith without coquetry, without interest. "Jude!" burst out the widower, "I promised you I never would again ax you to wed; but I'm obliged to know ef you're studyin' about takin' that feller." "No," said Judith, resenting nothing, "I never did aim to wed Blatch Turrentine, and I never will." The elder stood directly in her path, blocking the way and staring down at her miserably for a long minute. "That's what you always used to tell me," he remarked finally with a heavy sigh. "Back in them days when you let me hope that I'd see you settin' by my fireside with my children on your knees, you always talked thataway about Blatch--I reckon you talked thataway of me to him." Judith's pale cheek slowly crimsoned. She looked upon the ground. "I'm mighty sorry," she said slowly. Elihu Drane's faded eyes lighted with fresh fires. He caught the hand that hung by her side. "Oh, Jude--do you mean it?" he cried. "Do you care? You don't know how the chaps all love ye and want ye. That old woman I've got doin' for 'em ain't fittin' to raise 'em. Everybody tells me I've got to marry and give 'em a mother, but I cain't seem to find nobody but you. If you feel thataway--if you'll----"