The quick color surged into her cheeks; her eyes flashed; she let go the bough so suddenly that, swinging elastically into its place, the little owl was almost dislodged from its perch, and it tightened its toes and even slightly spread its wings to keep its balance. It uttered a low sound, a sort of mutter, that they might have heard had they not been too absorbed; and it was with a kind of resentful dignity that it settled itself again in its feathers, and cocked its head askew, and looked down at them with its round, bright eyes. “An’ I dunno what sorter man ye kin be, ter kem makin’ remarks ter me ’bout’n it,” she cried indignantly. “I hev knowed ye sech a little time, I reckon nobody would hev expected sech from you-uns,” he resumed. She stood for a moment in blank amazement. Then she seemed ready to burst into tears. “I never said it ’cept ter granny,—an’ who would hev thunk o’ her settin’ up an’ tellin’ it all ter you-uns, not knowin’ ye war the same one? Ye never tole we-uns yer name, that evenin’. I jes’ ’lowed ye war kin ter Bowles.” “I don’t keer who ye said it ter,” he declared, his voice full of reproach. “I ain’t keerin’ fur nuthin’ ’ceptin’ ye thunk it,—an’ I never done nuthin’ ter make ye think it.” Once more she looked at him, aghast. She put up her hand again to the bough, now for the sake of support. “Tellin’ folks, an’ settin’ out ter b’lieve ez I be a hypercrite, an’ _purtend_ ter be pious, an’”— “Oh!” she exclaimed, with a note of comprehension and relief so marked that he paused abruptly, and demanded sternly,— “What did you-uns ’low I war talkin’ ’bout?” She did not answer. Her expression had suddenly changed, as she stood under the bough. No dryad, no ethereal native of the tree, could wear a face more airily lightsome, more elfinly gay, than she, looking out through the sheen and the flickering shadow. “Waal,” said he, staring blankly at her, “What war _ye_ a-talkin’ ’bout?” She only shook her head in gleeful silence. “Ye never said nuthin’,” he resumed, seeking to review the conversation that he might unravel its mystery, “’ceptin’ I war a—a”—he stumbled at the word,—“a hypercrite, an’ a sinner;—yes, an’ special good-lookin’, but I never minded _that_.” Her face had grown conscious again. “I reckon not,” she remarked dryly. “_Ye_ mind that, though,” he said penetratingly, at last; “that’s what ye thought I war talkin’ ’bout, hey? Waal, I jes’ mind ye callin’ me a sinner, an’ sayin’ ez I _purtend_ ter be pious.” He noted her instant relief at the change of the subject. “Ye don’t mind folks knowin’ ye called ’em sinners,” he continued, “but whenst it comes ter _handsome_ sinners”— He desisted, in pity for the look in her face. “I tell ye now, Marcelly,” he said gravely, as they mechanically took their way together toward the house, “ye may ’low ez I be hard-hearted, an’ cruel-eyed, an’ got no religion, but I be a-goin’ ter furgive ye fur them words,—like a Christian!”