“Ya'as, Zekle,” she said, shyly. “Whoopee! I feel like I'd like ter jump up 'n' knock my heels tergether 'n' yell!” “Yer'd better try it er spell.” she said, smiling at him shyly, “'n' jest see how soon ye'd ha' th' hull fambly er-rushin' in ter see what was the matter.” Hereupon came the ominous sound of Father Tyler winding the clock in the sitting-room; Zekle knew 'twas a signal for him to depart. “Well,” slowly rising, “I guess I got ter go, but I do mortally hate ter. Come ter th' door wi' me, Mandy Calline”; and taking her hand, he drew her up beside him, but she stood off a bit skittishly, and he knew that it would be useless to ask the question which was trembling on his lips, so, quick as a flash, he dropped one arm around her waist, tipped up her chin with the other hand, and kissed her square on the mouth before she fairly knew what he was about. “You Zekle White!” she cried out, snatching herself from his arm and bestowing a rousing slap on his face. “I knowed ye wouldn't give me one, so I tuck it jest so. Good-night tell ter-morrer, Mandy Calline; I'm goin' home 'n' dream erbout ye.” The next morning dawned bright and soft. A perfect September morning. Father Tyler and the boys were at the lot feeding and milking. Mandy Calline was cleaning up the house, her comely face aglow with her new-found happiness. Susan Jane attended to the baby, while Ann Elisabeth helped her mother “get breakfast.” “Gra'mammy was sleepin' so nice when I got up,” said the girl, “that I crep' out 'n' didn't wake 'er. Had I better go see of she's erwake now, mar? Breakfus is nigh erbout done.” “Not yet. Go tell Mandy Calline ter git th' milk-pitcher 'n' go to the cow-pen 'n' fetch some milk fer breakfus. No tellin' when they'll git thoo out there. Then you hurry back 'n' finish fryin' that pan o' pertaters. No need ter 'sturb gra'mammy till breakfus is ready ter put on th' table; 'n' yer pappy 'n' th' boys'll ha' ter wash when they come from th' lot.” And Mother Tyler opened the stove door and put in a generous pan of biscuits to bake. Mandy Calline, with the milk-pitcher in her hand, hurried out to the cow-pen, which adjoined the stable lot. Her father was milking, Jim holding the calves. Zachariah was in the lot feeding the horse and pigs. She had just stepped over the bars into the pen, when who should appear, sauntering up, but Zeke White! He assumed a brave front, and with hands thrust in his pantaloons pockets, came up, whistling softly. “Good-mornin', Zekle,” greeted Father Tyler, rising from his stooping position. “Good-mornin', Mr. Tyler. Fine mornin'.” “Ya'as; but I'm erfeared we're goin' ter hev rain in er day er two. I feel ruther rheumaticky this mornin', er mighty shore sign that rain ain't fur off. Want milk fer breakfus, Mandy Calline? Well, fetch here yer pitcher.”