"Oh, my dear friend," cried Mr. Mavity, "I really don't think you ought to say that. Hate is a very dreadful word. I am sure Alix is incapable of actually hating any one. And as for David, he is kindness, gentleness itself. It is just one of those unfortunate situations that cannot be accounted for." Charlie Webster came up at that juncture. "Say, Court, why didn't you tell 'em about the time you called Colonel What's-His-Name down,--the French guy that--" The scowl on Courtney's brow silenced the genial Charlie. He coughed and sputtered for a moment or two and then said something about "taking a joke." As Charlie moved away, Miss Angie Miller sniffed and said, without appreciably lowering her voice: "I wonder where he gets it. There isn't supposed to be a drop in Windomville." Suddenly her eyes flew wide open. "Furman! Oh, Furman Hatch!" she called out to a man who was sidling toward the door in the wake of the pernicious Mr. Webster. While there was nothing to indicate that Mr. Hatch heard her, the most disinterested spectator would have observed a perceptible acceleration of speed on his part. "You promised to tell me how to--" But Mr. Hatch was gone. Mr. Webster turned a surprised and resentful look upon him as he felt himself being pushed rather roughly through the door ahead of the hurrying photographer. When Miss Angie reached the door,--she had lost some little time because of the seats and the stupidity of Mrs. Primmer who blocked the way by first turning to the right, then to the left, and finally by not turning at all,--Mr. Hatch was nowhere in sight, even though Mr. Webster was barely two-thirds of the way down the stairs. A pleasant, courteous voice accosted her from behind as she stood glaring after the chubby warehouseman. "Do you mind if I walk home with you, Miss Miller?" "Oh, is--is that you, Mr. Thane?" she fairly gasped. Then she simpered. "I'm really not a bit afraid. Still,"--hastily--"if you really wish to, I should be delighted." If Mr. Hatch was lurking anywhere in the shadows, he must have been profoundly impressed by the transformation in Miss Angie Miller as she strode homeward at the side of the tall young New Yorker, her hand on his arm, her head held high,--he might also have noticed that she stepped a little higher than usual. CHAPTER VIII ALIX THE THIRD October came, with its red and golden trees, its brown pastures, its crisp nights and its hazy, smoky days. Fires were kindled in old-fashioned fireplaces; out in the farmyards busy housewives were making soap and apple butter in great iron kettles suspended over blazing logs; wagons laden with wheat and corn rumbled through country roads and up to the Windom elevator; stores were thriving under the spur of new-found money; the school was open, Main Street childless for hours at a time,--and Courtney Thane was still in Windomville.