“Still she didn't take her hand away last night, when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else, and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess. “Carlton said she'd take the conceit out of me, if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter, still it doesn't matter, since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't, for what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow. “How she lit on me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special! Jerusalem! I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl--there's no doubt of that.” At this juncture, Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. “Mornin', Mr. Winfield.” “Good morning, Joe; how are your troubles this morning?” “They're ill right, I guess,” he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. “Want me to read the paper to yer?” “No, thank you, Joe, not this morning.” The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. “Ain't I done it to suit yer?” “Quite so,” returned Winfield, serenely. “I don't mind doin' it,” Joe continued, after a long silence. “I won't charge yer nothin'.” “You're very kind, Joe, but I don't care about it to-day.” Winfield rose and walked to the other end of the porch. The apple trees were in bloom, and every wandering wind was laden with sweetness. Even the gnarled old tree in Miss Hathaway's yard, that had been out of bearing for many a year, had put forth a bough of fragrant blossoms. He saw it from where he stood; a mass of pink and white against the turquoise sky, and thought that Miss Thorne would make a charming picture if she stood beneath the tree with the blown petals drifting around her. He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. “Be you goin' up to Miss Hathaway's this mornin'?” “Why, I don't know,” Winfield answered somewhat resentfully, “why?” “'Cause I wouldn't go--not if I was in your place.” “Why?” he demanded, facing him. “Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick.” “Sick!” repeated Winfield, in sudden fear, “what's the matter!” “Oh, 't ain't nothin' serious, I reckon, cause she's up and around. I've just come from there, and Hepsey said that all night Miss Thorne was a-cryin', and that this mornin' she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She don't never eat much, but this mornin' she wouldn't eat nothin', and she wouldn't say what was wrong with her.” Winfield's face plainly showed his concern. “She wouldn't eat nothin' last night, neither,” Joe went on. “Hepsey told me this mornin' that she thought p'raps you and her had fit. She's your girl, ain't she?” “No,” replied Winfield, “she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm sorry she isn't well.”