"You can't get it," she said, laughing; "you'll fall into the spring. But, then, you might hold it as a remembrance to temper the severity of the ducking yet to come." "Miss Guinea," I made bold to say, standing at the door of the spring-house, "do you know that you talk with exceeding readiness?" "Oh, do you mean that I am always ready to talk? I didn't think that of you." I reached out and took the jar from her. "You know I didn't mean that," I said; and, looking up, with her eyes full of mischief, she asked: "What did you mean, then?" "I mean that you talk easily and brightly--like a book." "You'd better let me have the jar," she said, holding out her hands. "I'm afraid that you'll fall and break it, after that. You know that a man is never so likely to slip as he is when he's trying to compliment a woman." "No, I don't know that, but I do know that a Southern woman ought to know the difference between flattery and a real compliment." "Why a Southern woman?" she asked. She looked to me as if she were really in earnest and I strove to answer her earnestly. "Because Southern women are not given to flirting; because they place more reliance in what a man says, and----" "I think you've got yourself tangled up," she said, laughing at me, and I could but acknowledge that I had; and then it was, in the sweetest of tones, that she said: "But if I had thought you really were tangled I would not have spoken of it. Now tell me what you were going to say, and I promise to listen like a mouse in a corner." "No, I'm afraid to attempt it again." I was in advance of her, for the path was narrow and the dew was now gathering on the grass, but she shot past me, and, looking back, said beseechingly: "Won't you, please?" The sun was long since down and the twilight was darkening, but I could see the eagerness on her face. "Do, please, for I like to hear such things. I'm nothing but the simplest sort of a girl, as easy to amuse as a child, and you must remember that you are a great big man, from out in the world." "Come on with that butter!" the old man shouted, and with a laugh the girl ran away from me. I wondered whether she were playing with me, but I could not believe that she was. In those eyes there might be mischief, but there could not be deceit. Bed time came immediately after supper. The old man did not go out to look after his chickens, so tired was he, and there was no song in the sitting-room. I sat in the passage, where the moonlight fell, and hoped that the girl might join me, but she did not, and I went to my room, where I found Alf, half undressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. I had sat down and had filled my pipe before he took notice of me, but when I began to search about for a light he looked up and remarked: "Matches on the corner of your library."