“’Tain’t; promisin’ ter marry me air a mighty cheerful, safe thing! Knowin’ me like ye do! Ef ye war a-promisin’ ter marry some o’ these deceitful folks ez kem hyar in thar saaft comp’ny manners, an’ then go cavortin round the Cove like a demented blacksmith; or folks ez hev got Christian talk fairly a-wobblin’ all ’round ’em, an’ yit all Brumsaidge air afeard ter say a word whilst they air ridin’ folks down,—off’cers o’ the law an’ sech,—’twould be a mighty serious matter, an’ a heap mo’ serious ter keep enny sech promise.” He looked at her triumphant in the fullness of his logic; but alas! what has love to do with logic? The futility of all his fine reasoning was borne in upon him with a dreary accession of heartache and a determination of energy to his temper. “But ye air in love with some o’ ’em, Marcelly, an’ ye air jes’ foolin’ me. Naw, ye won’t even take the trouble ter try ter fool me,—I ain’t wuth it. Ye air in love with some o’ ’em, else why air ye so solemn? It’s enough ter make ye solemn, though the Lord knows.” She had not recommenced her spinning; she was looking at him with a remonstrant, smiling expression, as if she might thus coax him from his boyish wrath, when suddenly her eyes filled, her lips trembled. He rose, quivering at the sight of her agitation. “I’ll find out which one of ’em ’tis that ye air goin’ ter marry, Marcelly, an’ I’ll go down yander inter the Settlemint an’ scatter what he calls his brains all ’round his anvil. Air it Clem Sanders? Air ye goin’ ter marry Clem?” “I ain’t solemn fur Clem Sanders,” she sobbed, half laughing; then, with a gush of tears, “I hev got a heap besides ter make me solemn.” “Tell me who it is that ye air goin’ ter marry,”—he touched the trigger of his rifle, with a fierce elation in his eye; “it’s loaded fur _him_.” Marcella suddenly lifted her head, as if listening. She rose precipitately. “Jes’ go ’long, now, Andy. Ye hev been hyar a long time. Go home, an’ I’ll tell ye ennythin’ ye want ter know nex’ time ye kem. Jes’ g’long, like a good boy.” He stared, motionless, amazed at her pale face and agitated manner. Then he too heard a step within. “He’s in the house,” he exclaimed, “a-talkin’ ’long o’ Mis’ Strobe an’ Is’bel! An’ ye wanted me ter go ’way ’thout seein’ him. I know ye now, Marcelly, an’ I’ll stay. I won’t be druv off; I’ll stay, an’”—His hand once more sought the trigger of his rifle, as his blazing eyes fixed upon the door whence the sound of the step proceeded. A hesitating step it was, and slow.