"Let us forget it. I was always a fool--until after that night. But about the woman, what became of her?" "I don't know. She blew away like the down of the dandelion." "And you didn't see her again?" "Never again." "But you dreamed of her?" "No. You misunderstand me. I didn't fall in love with her. I say that I might have loved her. Perhaps upon becoming acquainted with her, I might have smiled at my foolish belief--might have found her uninteresting." "You said there was one or two--the other one? What about her?" "I don't remember her at all. I say that I may have seen her, but I don't recall her." "Perhaps the other one has read your story." "Or perhaps her daughter honeyed over it on her wedding journey," he suggested, laughing. A light vehicle rattled down the road, and she looked up. "I was thinking that someone might drive past and recognize us," she said. "It may be wrong, but I don't want father to know that we meet, except by accident." "Wasn't this meeting an accident?" he asked, hoping that she would say it was not, on her part. "Yes. But sitting here under this tree is not. And I must go," she added, arising. He got up and stood there, hoping that she would hold out her hand to him, but she did not. "Good-bye," she said, smiling as she turned away. "Let me hope for another accident, soon," Lyman replied, bowing to her. CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE WAGON-MAKER'S SHOP. Sawyer drove rapidly toward Spring Hill, about eight miles distant from Old Ebenezer. The land was uneven, with oak ridges, beech slopes and shell-bark hickory flats, but the road was smooth, and for the two trotting horses the buggy was merely a plaything. He drew up at a wagon-maker's shop, the end of his journey, and threw the lines to a negro who came forward to meet him. "You needn't feed them," he said. "Take the harness off and let them run about the lot. They've been shut up till they're frisky." A large man, in his shirt sleeves, and with collar unbuttoned, met him at the door. "Helloa, Mr. Zeb." "Helloa, Steve, where's Bob?" "Come in. He's about, somewhere." Sawyer entered and sat down on a large block of wood, his feet half hidden in a pile of chips. A hand-saw, hanging on the wall, caught a shaft of light from the sun, and threw it into his eyes. He turned slightly and spoke to the wagon-maker. "How's business with you?"