An old dog had trotted over from Eli Strobe’s,—the dog which Teck Jepson had recognized as the property of the “frequent visitor.” He came along with the easy, confident manner appertaining to both dogs and people who are more highly appreciated than they deserve; for he was not useful, being too good-natured for a watch-dog, and having no particular nose for game and no compensating energy or joy in its pursuit, and he was by no means comely. His long tongue lolled out, his eyes looked hot. He showed no signs of recognition of any of the men, but sat down gravely in front of them. “I b’lieve that thar old dog hain’t got no owner,” Jepson said tentatively to Eli Strobe, with a craft of which he was ashamed. “Yer darter tole me the t’other day ’twarn’t hern.” Eli Strobe’s slow side-glance was directed toward the long-haired youth, who lay at length on the grass, and who had not spoken. “Andy’s,” he said curtly,—“Andy Longwood’s.” Jepson felt the blood mount to his face. So _this_ was the “frequent visitor,” whose name she would not speak; this was the riddle she had left him to guess,—this long-haired, curly-pated creature. “I’d shear him like a sheep,” he said contemptuously to himself. The young man, at the sound of his name, turned upward a gentle, placid face. “Talkin’ ter me?” he drawled slowly. Eli Strobe gave him a sidelong glower, and shook his head. “Sheep, fur true!” Jepson thought, scanning his mild countenance. “I’ll be bound he kin say ‘Ba-a!’” He looked with an easy contempt after the young fellow, as he rose and strolled away, the old dog at his heels. “Ef ennybody war ter take a notion ter Marcelly Strobe, he needn’t mind that thar leetle chuckle-headed Woolly.” Jepson watched Andy Longwood take his way toward Eli Strobe’s cabin without one qualm of distrust or displeasure. This the vaunted “frequent visitor”! So strong a factor is jealousy in sentiment at this stage that, relieved of his unacknowledged apprehensions, Jepson’s sudden assumption that he had only a sort of paternal or fraternal interest in Marcella, equally divided with the callow Isabel, was altogether sincere, and he was unaware of those subtle mental processes by which he was self-deceived. He produced much the same impression upon himself that he did on Eli Strobe, when he said with a casual smile, “He’s a-danglin’ arter Marcelly, ain’t he?” Eli Strobe sullenly nodded. “He mought ez well dangle _off_, too.” He cast an authoritative side-glance at Jepson, which intimated the possibility of paternal interference in matters of the heart. “Marcelly ain’t sech ez ter take a likin’ ter him, but somehows she can’t git rid o’ the critter.” “I hev hearn,” said Joe Bassett animatedly, “ez how Marcelly and Clem”—the blacksmith had strolled off, his hands in his pockets, his hat pulled far over his gloomy face—“hev been keepin’ comp’ny tergether.”