A WEEK went by. To Cynthia its days were veritable months of mental torture. Porter came in one day at sundown from the village. As usual, he had something to say regarding the all-absorbing topic of Nelson Floyd's mysterious disappearance. Through the day neighbors had been in with many vague and groundless rumors, all of which were later discredited, but Nathan Porter, sardonic old observer that hie was, usually got nearer the facts than any one else, and in consequence he was always listened to. “What's anybody heard now?” his wife asked him, as he came through the gate to where she and Cynthia sat on the porch. “They've heard a lots,” he said. “Among other things, it's finally leaked out that Lee's surrendered an' the niggers is all declared free. Some say George Washington has jest crossed the Delaware in a tippy-canoe, an' that Napoleon discovered America, but I doubt it. What I want to know is whether supper is ready or not.” “No, it isn't,” Mrs. Porter made haste to inform him, “but it will be in a few minutes. The table's set an' all is ready, except the bread isn't quite done. Now, what have you heard in town?” “A body kin hear a lots,” Porter drawled out. “The trouble is to keep from listenin' to so much. People are standin' as thick about Mayhew & Floyd's shebang as flies over a fresh ginger-cake. You two are the only women in the county that hain't been thar, an' I'm proud of the distinction. Old Mrs. Snodgrass mighty nigh had a fisticuff fight to retain her corner in the store, whar she's had 'er distributin' office fer the last week. Joe Peters needed the space. He tried to put a coop o' chickens thar, but you bet the chickens had to go some'rs else. Mrs. Snod' said she was gittin' hard o' hearin', an' ef she wasn't right thar in the front she wouldn't git a thing till it was second-handed.” “Oh, I get out of all patience with you,” cried Mrs. Porter. “Why does it take you so long to get to a point?”