my heart was warm toward you even while she was praising you--even while I was jealous. I again asked her what she thought of Dan Stuart, and she looked up at me and wanted to know if I knew what he thought of her. I told her that everybody loved her, and that I didn't suppose he was mean enough not to love her. She said that she knew people who didn't love her, and I told her that if she would show them to me I would butt their heads together for being such idiots. We were now almost within sight of the General's home and I was not getting along very fast. I was determined to make a break. We were on a hill, where the trees were tall, almost over-lapping the road. To the right ran a path through the briars, a nearer way home. I asked her to wait and she stopped. The sun was down and it was now almost dark. And it was then that I told her that I loved her. I don't know how I acted or what I said, but I know that I was down in the dust at her feet. She stood there, pale and trembling, looking around as if she would call for help. I asked her to marry me, and she laughed, Bill--laughed at me and darted down the path. Then I went into the woods and roamed about I don't know where; and that is the reason I wasn't at the gathering to-night. I'm bruised and crippled, Bill--my heart is sore, but I want to tell you that when she's standing on the floor with that fellow Stuart, with the preacher in front of her, I'll be there, putting in my plea. I won't give up as long as there is a fighting chance left. Don't say a word about it. Forgive me for dragging you off down here. God knows you've got a deep trouble of your own. And I wish my word could settle it--I'd speak it, though it might hurt my chances at the General's. Well, let's go to the house." CHAPTER XI. Guinea and Chyd, old Lim and his wife went to church the next day, leaving Alf and me alone. Alf held himself in reasonable restraint until the old people were gone, and then he broke out so violently that I really feared for his reason. And it was mainly my fault for I read him a passionate poem, the outcry of a maddened soul, and he swore that it had been written for him, that it was his, and I caught his spirit and fancied that he might have written it, for I believed then, as I believe now, that great things do not come from a quiet heart, that quiet hearts may criticise, but that they do not create, that genius is a condition, an agony, a tortured John Bunyan.