“Oh!” exclaimed Grace, “that is your bell. You will be late. You must go, and so must I. Good night.” She started down the path. He hesitated, then ran after her. “To-morrow?” he questioned eagerly. “Tomorrow, then, you'll say that you will?” “Oh, perhaps, perhaps! I mustn't promise. Good night.” It was after seven when Grace reached the old tavern. The housekeeper, Mrs. Poundberry, was anxiously awaiting her. She wore her bonnet and Sunday gown and was evidently ready to go out. “Land sakes alive!” she sputtered. “Where in the name of goodness have you been to? I was gettin' scairt. Didn't know but you'd run off and got married, or sunthin' dreadful.” Grace was thankful that the cloudy twilight made it impossible to see her face distinctly. The housekeeper rattled on without waiting for an answer. “Supper's on the table and the kittle's abilin'. You better eat in a hurry, 'cause it's meetin' time now. Your uncle, he started ten minutes ago. I'm agoin' right along, too, but I ain't goin' to meetin'; I'm agoin' up to Betsy E.'s to stay all night. She's got a spine in her back, as the feller said, and ain't feelin' good, so I told her I'd come and stay a little spell. S'pose you can get along to-morrow without me?” “Betsy E.” was Mrs. Poundberry's second cousin, an elderly spinster living alone in a little house near the salt works. Grace assured her questioner that she could attend to the house and the meals during the following day, longer if the troublesome “spine” needed company. Mrs. Poundberry sighed, groaned, and shook her head. “I shan't stay no longer,” she affirmed; “not if Betsy's all over spines, like one of them Mexican cactus plants. No, marm, my place is right here and I know it. Your Uncle Eben's mighty feeble and peaked lately. He ain't long for this world, I'm afraid. You'd ought to be awful good to him, Gracie.” “I know it,” was the hurried reply. “Where's Nat?”