“No, I couldn't wait till to-morrow, for that long, slim 'sky-pilot' will run over before breakfast to ask you to go with him. I know that. But can I count on you?” She hesitated for a moment, then she said, simply: “Yes, I'll go with you; but I shall leave you now. Good-night.” “Good-night, then. Well, I'll see you Sunday--I guess that will have to do.” XI FLOYD sat on the bench for more than an hour after she had left him. His thoughts were of himself. He smoked two cigars moodily. The whole day was retracing its active steps before his eyes, from the moment he opened his ledger to do his morning's work till now that his naked soul stood shivering in the darkness before him. His thoughts bounded from one incident in his life to another, each leap ending in a shudder of discontent. Cynthia's dignified restraint, and the memory of her helpless, spasmodic leanings both to and from him, at once weighted him down and thrilled him. Yes, his almost uncontrollable passion was his chief fault. Would he ever be able to subdue it and reach his ideal of manhood? Throwing his cigar away, he rose to leave. His watch told him it was eleven. He did not go towards the house and out at the gate, but took a nearer way through the orchard, reaching the rail-fence a hundred yards below Porter's house. He had just climbed over and was detaching himself from the detaining clutch of numerous blackberry briers, when he saw a head and pair of shoulders rise from a near-by fence-corner. It was Pole Baker who advanced to him in astonishment. “By gum!” Pole ejaculated. “I come as nigh as pease lettin' a pistol-shot fly at you. I was passin' an' heard some'n' in the orchard an' 'lowed it mought be somebody try in' to rob Porter's sweet-potato bed, an', by the holy Moses, it was you!” “Yes, it was me, Pole.” The farmer's slow glance left Floyd's face and swept critically along the fence to the white-posted gate in the distance. “Huh!” he said, and was silent, his eyes roving on to the orchard, where his glance hovered in troubled perplexity. “Yes, I went to see Miss Cynthia,” Floyd explained, after a pause. “Huh, you say you did! Well, I didn't see no light in the parlor when I passed jest now'. I was particular to look, fer I've been everywhar to find you, an' Porter's was the last place. By gum! I didn't think a chap that had been kick'n' the clods o' the grave off'n 'im all day fer a woman scrape 'ud run straight to another gal before he knowed whether his hide was liable to remain solid or not.” “I wanted to see Miss Cynthia,” Floyd said, “to ask her to go to bush-arbor meeting with me Sunday, and I didn't intend to let my affair with Jeff Wade interfere with it.” “Huh, that was it! an' that's why you are a-comin' out o' Nathan Porter's orchard at eleven o'clock at night, is it?” Floyd gazed at his rough friend for an instant, just a touch of irritability in his manner as he made answer: