“Not as long as that,” said Courtland laughing, “if I remember rightly.” “Yes,” said Miss Sally with dancing eyes. “I, a So'th'n girl, actually set my foot on the head of a No'th'n scum of a co'nnle! My!” “Let that satisfy your friends then.” “No! I want to apologize. Sit down, co'nnle.” “But, Miss Sally”-- “Sit down, quick!” He did so, seating himself sideways on the bank. Miss Sally stood beside him. “Take off yo' hat, sir.” He obeyed smilingly. Miss Sally suddenly slipped behind him. He felt the soft touch of her small hands on his shoulders; warm breath stirred the roots of his hair, and then--the light pressure on his scalp of what seemed the lips of a child. He leaped to his feet, yet before he could turn completely round--a difficulty the young lady had evidently calculated upon--he was too late! The floating draperies of the artful and shameless Miss Sally were already disappearing among the tombs in the direction of the hollow. CHAPTER V. The house occupied by the manager of the Drummond Syndicate in Redlands--the former residence of a local lawyer and justice of the peace--was not large, but had an imposing portico of wooden Doric columns, which extended to the roof and fronted the main street. The all-pervading creeper closely covered it; the sidewalk before it was shaded by a row of broad-leaved ailantus. The front room, with French windows opening on the portico, was used by Colonel Courtland as a general office; beyond this a sitting-room and dining-room overlooked the old-fashioned garden with its detached kitchen and inevitable negro cabin. It was a close evening; there were dark clouds coming up in the direction of the turnpike road, but the leaves of the ailantus hung heavy and motionless in the hush of an impending storm. The sparks of lazily floating fireflies softly expanded and went out in the gloom of the black foliage, or in the dark recesses of the office, whose windows were widely open, and whose lights Courtland had extinguished when he brought his armchair to the portico for coolness. One of these sparks beyond the fence, although alternately glowing and paling, was still so persistent and stationary that Courtland leaned forward to watch it more closely, at which it disappeared, and a voice from the street said:-- “Is that you, Courtland?” “Yes. Come in, won't you?” The voice was Champney's, and the light was from his cigar. As he opened the gate and came slowly up the steps of the portico the usual hesitation of his manner seemed to have increased. A long sigh trilled the limp leaves of the ailantus and as quickly subsided. A few heavy perpendicular raindrops crashed and spattered through the foliage like molten lead. “You've just escaped the shower,” said Courtland pleasantly. He had not seen Champney since they parted in the cemetery six weeks before.