Stuart was buried the next day, and the mourners passed our house. Mrs. Jucklin was sitting at the window when the hearse and the buggies came within sight, and her chin was unsteady as she reached for her book. And there she sat, holding the old leather-covered Bible in her lap. I had thought that Chyd Lundsford would come, with words of encouragement, but we saw him not, neither that day nor the next. But four days later I came upon him as I was going to town. He had a gun, was followed by a number of squirrel-dogs and came out of the woods near the spot where Alf had eased Stuart from his horse to the ground. I stopped and bluntly asked him why he had not been over, and he answered that he was busy preparing for a rigid examination. I asked if they were going to examine him on the art of killing game, and he laughed and replied: "No, on the science of killing men. By the way," he added, looking up into the top of a tree, "how is Alf getting along? Does he appear to be hopeful?" "He is more desperate than hopeful," I answered. "Yes, I should think so. Is that a squirrel's nest? I have heard it hinted that a love-affair had something to do with it--an affair pretty close, at that. Well, I've got nothing to do with it. Can't drive out of my mind what I have had so hard a time driving into it. Sorry, and all that sort of thing. That's no squirrel's nest. But if people persist in being romantic they must expect to have trouble. I'm sorry for the old folks--must take it rather hard. Good-hearted and simple enough to worry over it, surely. Well, if you happen to think of it, give Alf my regards."