Jepson turned, with a flush and a flash of the eye. “Ye ’low ez I be a-keerin’ fur that—the answerin’ fur it! Naw, sir! It’s the doin’ o’ sech ez be a-killin’ me. I wouldn’t hev done it! I wouldn’t hev done it!” He struck his hands despairingly together above his head. Then his consciousness of their entertained eyes, which expressed a sort of sub-acute unrealized pleasure in the painful excitement, asserted itself, and he leaned passively against the post, silent and unresponsive when they spoke; and presently they all passed through the gate, along the turn-row and up the slope to the forge, to detail the news to the waiting crowd, and hear in turn the speculations elicited. He stood as still as if he had turned to stone, his elbow on the post, the mare’s graceful head close to the broad brim of his hat, the dog of the “frequent visitor,” an animal of facile allegiance, at his heavily booted and spurred feet; he did not stir even when he saw the door open and shut slowly, and Marcella, still pale-faced and large-eyed, emerge upon the porch. She stood, evidently preoccupied, for a moment amidst the luxuriant jack-bean blossoms, purple and white, that overran the rickety little structure. Then, although her eyes had rested on him some little time, she seemed suddenly to perceive him. He could not interpret the expression on her face. Her light figure was poised for a moment, as if she were uncertain whether she might advance or disappear. Then she came to the verge of the porch, leaning forward and lifting the blossoming tendrils that she might look through at him. She stretched forth her hand and beckoned him. His blood gave a great bound in his veins. He felt the hot color in his cheek. His heart was beating so wildly, so heavily, that he could not hear the rustle of the lush grass as his quick strides bore him across the yard, or the abrupt and frantic outcry of the frightened poultry scuttling away. There were unwonted tears in his eyes; he could have wept in glad humility for the joy of her generosity. He hastily stretched forth his hand to clasp hers which held the vine, but she withdrew it abruptly, and he only clasped the vines, warm from the touch of her hand. As he looked up at her she looked down at him, inscrutably. “What war ye a-waitin’ thar fur?” she demanded in a low voice, and with an anxious glance toward the window close at hand. “Ter know ef thar be ennything I kin do fur ye,” he said. She looked away at the refulgent golden-red glow of sunset-tide, that filled all the air over the wooded valley and the mountain above, till it touched the serene and colorless east. Then she said slowly, “Yes,—ye kin do suthin’ fur me.” Her eyes met his. “Go up ter the mounting—an’ kem back no mo’!” Her voice was intense and low. Her straight, defiant brows were knitted; her eyes, once so soft, had a fierce glitter. “I never want ter see yer face agin whilst I live.” “Marcelly!” he faltered, amazed.