She replied uneasily, “Mebbe not.” Then she looked off a little drearily into the rain; for he had a coercively convincing manner, and perhaps she was reviewing with gloomy forebodings the fun she had had at camp-meeting. It was hardly mercy that prompted him to change the subject or any disposition to mitigate the terrors of future retribution as revealed to him. But he was a young man, and his mundane tendencies were none the less strong because unrecognized. “That thar yer dog?” he asked trivially. She responded with brightening interest to the more familiar theme. “Naw,” she said; “he’s jes’ a sorter—a sorter frien’ o’ mine.” She laughed a little,—a fascinating, elusive gleam upon her grave face, like the flitting presence of a sunbeam in a solemn and solitary place. “Neighbor’s dog?” demanded Jepson. “Naw.” Once more the smile rippled across her red lips, showing her even white teeth. “His owner lives toler’ble fur, over ter Chilhowee; but this hyar dog kem a-visitin’ along o’ him, an’ he kem right off’n, an’ the dog got purty well treated, till now the dog—comical old critter,” she laughed, with her hand on the hound’s head—“kems thar ez ef we war expectin’ of him, an’ sets up by the fire like folks. I never seen the beat!” There was a sudden gleam in Jepson’s eyes; the blue iris had a lighter tint. His lip curled. “His owner got purty well treated,” he said, with perverse and intentional misunderstanding. “The dog!” She was fluttered in her haste to correct him. “The dog got purty well treated.” “Ef he kem so all-fired often,” he observed, “the owner mus’ hev kem a-courtin’.” Then he looked quickly at her. She flushed to her temples; her eyes were alight with anger; she seemed on the verge of an outburst. Checking herself, she said demurely, “_I_ never thunk so, for one. His owner air eighty year old.” Teck Jepson had seldom known the twinge of ridicule. He looked away convinced that she was secretly laughing in triumph at his discomfiture because of this adroit turn of the conversation. But when he again glanced at her she had relapsed into her former attitude, her chin in her hand, her foot on the stone, looking out silently and dreamily. Her aspect was little that of a doughty opponent in a war of words, and he took heart of grace. “That’s fust rate fur a perfessin’ member,” he declared. He did not fail to observe that she winced. “I’ll b’lieve that whenst I see that thar frequent vis’tor’s white scalp, an’ no sooner.” For a moment it seemed as if she might laugh again. Then she turned upon him with genuine anger, not less serious that it was sudden:—