“Yes; she went up and saw him at that party, and she knows he's still thinking about her. I shouldn't be surprised if he asked her then, and that's what makes her so gay.” “Well, she couldn't have said 'yes,' because he went back to his bed the next day, and he's been there most of the time since.” “Pshaw! He wasn't over his injuries, and he was weak and got malaria.” “Well, she couldn't be so happy while he's sick, if she cared very much about him.” “He's not very sick. She's happy because she's working for him, and she knows his illness isn't serious. He'll be a well man when she says the word. He's love-sick, that's what he is; I never saw a man so taken down with it in my life.” “Then it isn't malaria?” Minnie said, with a smile of some superiority. “You're just like your poor mother,” the old gentleman answered, growing rather red. “She never could learn to argue. What I say is that Helen cares about him, whether she says she does or not, whether she acts like it or not--or whether she thinks she does or not,” he added irascibly. “Do you know what she's doing for him to-day?” “Not exactly.” “Well, when they were talking together at that party, he said something that made her think he was anxious to get away from Plattville--you're not to repeat this, child; she told me, relying on my discretion.” “Well?” “Do you know why she's got these men to come here to-day to meet her--Warren Smith and Landis and Homer, and Boswell and young Keating of Amo, and Tom Martin and those two fellows from Gaines County?” “Something about politics, isn't it?” “'Something about politics!'” he echoed. “I should say it is! Wait till it's done, and this evening I'll tell you--if you can keep a secret.” Minnie set her work-basket on the steps. “Oh, I guess I can keep a secret,” she said. “But it won't make any difference.” “You mean you've said it, and you'll stick to it that it's gratitude till their wedding day.” “She knows he gave her father something to do, and helped him in other ways, when no one else did.” “I know all about that. She reproaches herself for having neglected Fisbee while a stranger took care of him, and saved him from starving--and worse. She's unreasonable about it; she didn't know he was in want till long after. That's just like Fisbee, to tell her, afterwards. He didn't tell her how low he got; but he hinted at it to her, and I guess she understood; I gathered that much from him. Of course she's grateful, but gratefulness don't account for everything.” “Yes it does.” “Well, I never expected to have the last word with a woman.” “Well, you needn't,” said Minnie. “I don't. I never do,” he retorted. She did not answer, but hummed a little tune and looked up at the tree-tops. Warren Smith appeared in the doorway. “Judge,” he said, “will you step inside? We need you.” Briscoe nodded and rose at once. As he reached the door, Minnie said in a piercing whisper: “It's hard to be sure about her, but I'm right; it's gratitude.”