served to define her light, lithe figure distinctly against the tawny stretches of broomsedge behind her, that rose gradually to the summit of the hill. There seemed the full development of its tentative shade in the dark green of the pines clustering along the background of the mountain. Gray rocks cropped out of the red clay gullies that scarred the descent at her feet. In all the monotony of the scene, the flaring yellow about her throat seemed a triumphant climax of color, so luminous and intense it was. Her eyes were fixed on the gray sky opposite, for she looked far over the sere valleys, where it bent its great concave to a low level. Her hand hesitated as it was thrust into the brown gourd that she held. The sullen elements had no power to dim the fair, rich tints of her face, and grave though it was, it bore the happy trace of recent smiles. The sheep pressed close about her, the black sheep of the flock, all unaware of his unenviable metaphorical notoriety among men, preferring his claim for salt with calm assurance. She was motionless for a moment, then, as if the thought had come to her for the first time, “Why hev he never, never kem agin?” she said. Her mind went back slowly, to count the days. It was difficult to differentiate them, they were all so alike. As she reviewed the trivial incidents that might serve to individualize them, keeping a tally with her fingers on the gourd, she began to realize what she had not noticed before,—that lately there had been many visitors at the house, not her own, nor her grandmother’s; men, chiefly, wanting to see Eli Strobe. The doctor’s orders had precluded their entrance, being rigorously obeyed since they subserved the pride of the women, who had sought to shield Strobe’s infirmity from general observation in Broomsedge Cove. “We-uns don’t want ’em ’round hyar a-crowin’ over Eli in the pride o’ sech brains ez they hev got, till he hev hed a fair chance ter git well,” Mrs. Strobe had said to her granddaughter. “Folks knowed ez he war out’n his head with fever an’ his mind wandered some whenst he war fust knocked down, but nobody suspicions ez he hev plumb gone deranged ’bout killin’ Teck Jepson ’ceptin’ them two doctor men an’ Andy Longwood, an’ I know they ain’t goin’ ter tell.” Many, then, had been to the door of late, but the yellow-haired young stranger had come no more, and Marcella wondered, with a dull presage of gloom, would he ever come again. When next the chords of memory vibrated with his declaration that an angel had saved him, it had a jarring clangor of doubt, of ridicule, that made its wonted dulcet iteration a discord. Human nature is not generally so recognizant of celestial condescension and kindness that much is necessarily implied in the protestation of equivalent gratitude and indebtedness to an earthly benefactor. Marcella did not realize this. Was it thus, she asked herself, that he would have passed her by if he had felt in his heart the word upon his lips?