Gradually the ponderous witticism in which Janner had indulged became an accepted joke in the settlement. Bess had fallen a victim to the tender sentiment at last. She had found an adorer, and had apparently succumbed to his importunities. Seth spent less time in his shanty and more in her society. He lingered in her vicinity on all possible occasions, and seemed to derive comfort from her mere presence. And Bess not only tolerated but encouraged him. Not that her manner was in the least degree effusive: she rather extended a rough protection to her admirer, and displayed a tendency to fight his battles and employ her sharper wit as a weapon in his behalf. “Yo' may get th' best o' him,” she said dryly once to the wit of the Creek, who had been jocular at his expense, “but yo' conna get th' best o' me. Try me a bit, lad. I'm better worth yo're mettle.” “What's takken yo', lass?” said her mother at another time. “Yo're that theer soft about th chap as theer's no makkin' yo' out. Yo' wur nivver loike to be soft afore,” somewhat testily. “An' it's noan his good looks, neyther.” “No,” said Bess--“it's noan his good looks.” “Happen it's his lack on 'em, then?” “Happen it is.” And there the discussion ended for want of material. There was one person, however, who did not join in the jesting; and this was Langley. When he began to understand the matter he regarded the two with sympathetic curiosity and interest. Why should not their primitive and uncouth love develop and form a tie to bind the homely lives together, and warm and brighten them? It may have been that his own mental condition at this time was such as would tend to often his heart, for an innocent passion, long cherished in its bud, had burst into its full blooming during the months he had spent amid the novel beauty and loneliness, and perhaps his new bliss subdued him somewhat. Always ready with a kindly word, he was specially ready with it where Seth was concerned. He never passed him without one, and frequently reined in his horse to speak to him at greater length. Now and then, on his way home at night, he stopped at the shanty's door, and summoning the lad detained him for a few minutes chatting in the odorous evening air. It was thoroughly in accordance with the impulses of his frank and generous nature that he should endeavor to win upon him and gain his confidence. “We are both Deepton men,” he would say, “and it is natural that we should be friends, We are both alone and a long way from home.” But the lad was always timid and slow of speech. His gratitude showed itself in ways enough, but it rarely took the form of words. Only, one night as the horse moved away, he laid his hand upon the bridle and held it a moment, some powerful emotion showing itself in his face, and lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. “Mester,” he said, “if theer's ivver owt to be done as is hard an' loike to bring pain an' danger, yo'll--yo'll not forget me?”