“Got above eatin’, hev ye?” remarked Eli Strobe, whose affinities were essentially those of maturity, and who had scant sympathy with the callow stage of manhood. He entertained a robust contempt for its assertions and its confidence in some bigger and better future, likely to wait upon its superior capacities, than other men had attained. “Ye’ll git ter heaven quicker ’n ye think fur, ef ye jes’ hold out an’ foller that fashion ez a constancy.” Andy lifted his eyes slightly now, with an expression of surly indignation, but mindful of his own position he said merely, “I ain’t hongry.” He lingered a moment still, because the mountaineers do naught precipitately; then with a deliberate “Waal, good-by,” he started away. “Andy!” cried Marcella, her voice indeed as sweet as the mocking-bird’s. He turned, gloomily unappeased, stiffly obeying her behest to accord attention. He leaned upon his long rifle, as he stood in the path and looked back. She had risen, and had come to the verge of the porch; one hand was on the post, the other was held out to him. She was smiling still, and tears would have impressed him as more appropriate,—smiling easily and naturally, with a touch of jesting, ridiculing remonstrance in her manner. “I furgot. I want ter ax ye ter do me a favior—but—but—ye look so mad I be mos’ afeard. Air ye mad?” _So mad!_ And this was the way she interpreted his heartbreak. He looked with stern reproach at her, although he spoke in a gentle tone:— “Mad? What hev I got to be mad ’bout, Marcelly?” “Nuthin’,” she began. “That don’t hender, Andy,” interrupted Eli Strobe, unable to refrain from taking a hand in the little game. “The maddest folks air always them ez hev got no call ter git mad.” “I war ’feard ye _mought mebbe_ be mad with me,” said Marcella, still provokingly smiling, and stepping down from the porch and slowly approaching him.