"Billy was in the bank to-day," Lawrence went on, speaking to Captain Carter. "He said your wheat was ready to cut. Did you get Foose all right?" "Yes," said the captain, "he'll give me next week." "Do you have to board the threshers?" "No, not this year; they bring along their own cook, and a tent and everything." "Je-rusalem!" exclaimed Lawrence. "Things _are_ changing in these days, ain't they? Harvesting ain't as hard on the women-folks as it used to be." "No," said the captain, "but I pay for it, so much extra a bushel." His head shook regretfully, but he would have lost his regrets in telling of the time when he had swung a cradle all day in the harvest field, had not Mrs. Carter's voice just then been heard calling up the stairs: "Mayme!" "Whoo!" answered a high, feminine voice. "Come down. There's some one here to see you." Mrs. Carter turned into the parlor, and the tall windows that opened to the floor of the veranda burst into light. "She'll be right down, John," said Mrs. Carter, appearing in the door. "You give me your hats and go right in." "All right," said Lawrence, and he got to his feet. "Come on, Glenn." Mrs. Carter took the hats of the young men and hung them on the rack, where they might easily have hung them themselves. Then she went back to the veranda, letting the screen door bang behind her, and Lawrence and Marley entered the parlor. Marley took his seat on one of the haircloth chairs that seemed to have ranged themselves permanently along the walls, and Lawrence went to the square piano that stood across one corner of the room, and sat down tentatively on the stool, swinging from side to side. Marley glanced at the pictures on the walls. One of them was a steel engraving of Lincoln and his cabinet; another, in a black oval frame, portrayed Captain Carter in uniform, his hair dusting the strapped shoulders of a coat made after the pattern that seems to have been worn so uncomfortably by the heroes of the Civil War. There was, however, a later picture of the captain, a crayon enlargement of a photograph, that had taken him in civilian garb. This picture, in its huge gilt frame, was the most aggressive thing in the room, except, possibly, the walnut what-not. Marley had a great fear of the what-not; it seemed to him that if he stirred he must topple it over, and dash its load of trinkets to the floor. Presently he heard the swish of skirts. Then a tall girl came in, and Lawrence sprang to his feet. "Hello, Mayme. What'd you run for?" he said. He had crossed the room and seized the girl's hand. She flashed a rebuke at him, though it was evident that the rebuke was more out of deference to the strange presence of Marley than for any real resentment she felt. "This is my friend, Mr. Marley, Miss Carter," Lawrence said. "You've heard me speak of him."