“Yes-sum,” said Clem, infinitely cast down. “I dunno ez I hev got ter marry enny o’ the boys in the Cove. I dunno ez I hev got ter marry ennybody,” she said loftily. “Some folks don’t.” “Yes-sum; but didn’t they always ’pear ter you-uns ter be powerful lonesome?” he suggested humbly. This did not altogether fail to take effect. She pondered silently for a time on this phase of a single life. Presently she remarked:— “I wouldn’t be no lonesomer single ’n I’d be married ter _some_ folks.” He interpreted this as a thrust at his own lack of certain congenial and companionable qualities which she esteemed essential. “Yes-sum,” he replied, more cut down still. Perhaps she felt some pang of pity for his disappointment; perhaps she was not now so angry as at first, because of his very natural mistake, and thought it the least brutal method of disposing of his superfluous heart to argue the uncongeniality of his interests and pursuits. “An’ air yer ways so powerful pritty, Clem?” she demanded. “Cornsiderin’ how close we neighbor the forge, an’ hear the dancin’, an’ the fiddlin’, an’ the wrastlin’, an’ laffin’ ez goes on thar of a evenin’, I never expected ter live ter hear yer ways called pritty ones.” “Yes-sum,” said Clem. “But ef ye’d marry me I’d stay home of a evenin’, an’ that thar forge would be dark an’ still enough I’ll be bound.” “Waal, yer wife, whoever she’ll be, won’t want sech fiddlin’, an’ dancin’, an’ singin’ round her in her house of a evenin’ ez ye hev been useter, Clem. I can’t think o’ ye no ways but ez cavortin’,—though ye air mighty peaceable an’ quiet, an’ _kin_ behave some similar ter a mouse whenst ye kem visitin’ the gals.” “Yes-sum,” said poor Clem. “But I don’t visit no gals but you-uns.” “Laws-a-massy! An’ jes’ think how Is’bel an’ granny hev been gin over ter pride, bein’ ez they ’lowed ye kem a-visitin’ them!” There was a wicked gleam in her eye as she sped this dart. “Naw, naw! everybody knows the name that thar forge hev got!” “Yes-sum.” He hesitated for a moment; then he said, looking at her, his jaw growing square and determined, his expression changing with this infusion of more mundane matters into his thoughts, “Thar ain’t a-goin’ ter be enny mo’ o’ them queer midnight goin’s-on at the forge, Marcelly, arter this,—ye mark my words.” Then, as if he fancied he had spoken too roughly, he hastened to say, apropos of nothing, “Yes-sum,” and cleared his throat. Marcella sat feeling stunned for a moment. Could he have known, in some inexplicable way, of the discovery that she had made at the forge in the wild, stormy midnight? Was he indeed aware of the intrusion of Jake Baintree and the stranger, who worked the bellows, and wielded the hammer and sledge, and were frightened when interrupted, and who came forth only to give aid for humanity’s sake? She would not forget that they gave aid, whatever might happen, she said to herself.