He dropped down on the fragrant carpet of chips, and for the first time Haines noticed that he carried, after a gingerly fashion, on the end of a stick, a bundle apparently of clothes, and plentifully dusted with something white and powdery. Even in the open air and the rush of the summer wind the odor exhaled by quicklime was powerful and pungent, and the scorching particles came flying into Haines’s face. As he drew back Knowles noticed the gesture, and adroitly flung the bundle and stick to leeward, saying, “Don’t it ’pear plumb cur’ous ter you-uns, the idee o’ a minister o’ the gorspel a-settin’ out ter l’arn how ter read the Bible from a onconverted sinner? I hearn this hyar juggler-man ’low ez he warn’t even a mourner, though he said he hed suthin’ ter mourn over. An’ I’ll sw’ar he hev,” he added significantly, “an’ he may look ter hev more.” The poplar slivers flew fast from the keen blade, and the workman’s eyes were steadfastly fixed on the shingle growing in his hand. Peter Knowles chewed hard on his quid of tobacco for a moment; then he broke out abruptly, “Owen Haines, I knows ye want ter sarve the Lord, an’ thar’s many a way o’ doin’ it besides preachin’, else I’d be a-preachin’ myself.” Such was the hold that his aspiration had taken upon Haines’s mind that he lifted his head in sudden expectancy and with a certain radiant submissiveness on his face, as if his Master’s will could come even by Peter Knowles! “I brung ye yer chance,” continued Knowles. Then, with a quick change from a sanctimonious whine to an eager, sharp tone full of excitement, “What ye reckon air in that bundle?” Haines, surprised at this turn of the conversation, glanced around at the bundle in silence. “An’ whar do ye reckon I got it?” asked Knowles. Then, as Owen Haines’s eyes expressed a wondering question, he went on, mysteriously lowering his voice, “I fund it in my rock-house,--that big cave o’ mine whar I stored away the lime I burned on the side o’ the mounting--this bundle war flung in thar an’ kivered by quicklime!” Haines stared in blank amazement for a moment. “I ’lowed ye hed plugged up the hole goin’ inter yer cave, ter keep the lime dry, with a big boulder.” “Edzac’ly, edzac’ly!” Knowles assented, his close-set eyes so intent upon Haines as to put him out of countenance in some degree. Haines sought to withdraw his glance from their baleful significant expression, but his eyelids faltered and quivered, and he continued to look wincingly at his interlocutor. “I ’lowed ’twar too heavy for enny one man ter move,” he commented vaguely, at last. “’Thout he war helped by the devil,” Knowles stipulated. There was a pause. The young workman’s hand was still. His companion’s society did not accord with his mood. The loneliness had been soft and sweet, and of peaceful intimations. His frequent disappointments were of protean guise. Where was that work for the Master that Peter Knowles had promised him?