The old squire, looking up at her, his hat in his hand, said gallantly there was nothing in Sevier which Miss Isabel couldn't make go; at which the little girl laughed, and put her foot in his offered hand to jump down from the buggy. There did not seem to be a large amount of propelling power in her. She had a childish-looking figure, and went shyly into the store, blushing nervously as she passed the men outside. They all stood up and took off their hats, though they did that when any woman passed; but one after another, from Colonel Grayson to old Primus, contrived afterward to throw himself in her way, to give her a good-day respectfully, and have a private glimpse of the beaming face under the broad-brimmed brown hat. As soon, too, as it was noised about that Calhoun's wagon was in town the women all came out to find Isabel. Sevier was dismal enough after the funeral, and needed heartening, and, as Byloe said, "That young woman hed spirit enough for all Haywood county." Isabel was an intimate friend of every woman in town. Sue Grayson hurried her in to read her last love-letter, and Mother Byloe consulted her about her cherry jam. It was a pity, they thought, that she had no beauty--there was always a lamentation on that point when she was gone--and the men agreed that she lacked flesh; but Major Fetridge, who had known something of the world outside of Sevier in his day, used to follow her far off to watch her clear, sparkling face. However drunk he might be, it sobered him. To-day, as she stood among the village women, whose charms had ripened on the fried meat and black coffee on which they had been fed since babyhood, she reminded him of a fine proof engraving among cheap chromos. How it was that the little Pennsylvanian moved the mules and sluggish Sevier to life even the major did not know, but it was a fact that she always left the village more awake and happier than she found it. It was as if one had sung a stirring song in the market-place. As she drove away to-day the squire looked after her admiringly. "I heard you were going to send her North, Mr. Calhoun?" he said to the paunchy, brisk little man beside him. "Yes, yes," pulling his black moustache. "Fact is, this is no place for Isabel, squire. She has no mother: I have to think for the child. She has kinsfolk in New England, and I'll send her there for a year or two. To tell you the truth, I can't see her mated with one of these loggish young ploughmen about Sevier." "You mean Cabarreux?" said the squire with a significant nod. "Yes, I mean Cabarreux. 'Twon't do, squire. I've forbidden her to see him again. Well, what d'ye think of sending her away? I meant to ask your advice about it."