“Well, that's queer--or I am, one or the other; why, boys, I had that fellow on my dead-list. I didn't think he'd ever raise the money, and if he did I had no idea it would drift our way.” Floyd left the desk and reached for his hat. Pole was watching him closely. “Post-office?” he asked. “Yes.” Pole joined him, and the two walked part of the way to the front-door and paused. Joe Peters was attending a man on the grocery side of the house, and a young woman, neatly dressed, with a pretty figure and graceful movement, stood waiting her turn. “By gum!” Pole exclaimed under his breath, “that's my little neighbor, Cynthia Porter--the purtiest, neatest, an' best little trick that ever wore a bonnet. I needn't tell you that, though, you old scamp. You've already found it out. Go wait on 'er, Nelson. Don't keep 'er standin' thar.” Pole sat down on a bag of coffee and his friend went to the girl. “Good-morning, Miss Cynthia,” he said, his hat in his hand. “Peters seems busy. I don't know much about the stock, but if you'll tell me what you want I'll look for it.” Turning, she stared at him, her big brown eyes under their long lashes wide open as if in surprise. “Why--why--” She seemed to be making a valiant effort at self-control, and then he noticed that her voice was quivering and that she was quite pale. “I really didn't want to buy anything,” she said. “Mother sent me to tell Mr. Peters that she couldn't possibly have the butter ready before to-morrow.” “Oh, the butter,” Floyd said, studying her face and manner in perplexity. “Yes,” the girl went on, “she promised to have ten pounds ready to send to Darley, but the calves got to the cows and spoiled everything; that threw her at least a day behind.” “Oh, that don't make a bit o' difference to us, Miss Cynthia!” the clerk cried out from the scales, where he was weighing a parcel of sugar. “Our wagon ain't goin' over till Saturday, nohow.” “Well, she will certainly be glad,” the girl returned in a tone of relief, and she moved towards the door. Floyd, still wondering, went with her to the sidewalk. “You look pale,” he said, tentatively, “and--and, well, the truth is, I have never seen you just this way, Cynthia. Have you been having further trouble at home? Is your mother still determined that we sha'n't have any more of our buggy rides?” “It wasn't that--_to-day_,” she said, her eyes raised to his in a glance that, somehow, went straight to his heart. “I'll tell you, Nelson. As I came on, I had just reached Sim Tompkins's field, where he was planting com and burning stumps, when a negro--one of Captain Duncan's hands--passed on a mule. I didn't hear what he said, but when I came to Sim he had stopped ploughing and was leaning over the fence, saying, 'Awful, horrible,' and so on. I asked him what had happened, and he told me.” The girl dropped her eyes, her words hung in her throat, and she put a slender, tapering, though firm and sun-browned, hand to her lips.