IT WAS the fourth morning since Ambrose's departure, and county court day in Pennyroyal. The hour was just before noon, so the men had already left the court-house and were standing around in groups talking politics, while the younger ones paraded, walking shoulder to shoulder for mutual support and encouragement. The main street was also fluttering with girls, a variety of household errands having brought them forth at this hour; on their arms fresh sunbonnets trembled, in their eyes wonderful things danced, and indeed almost all of them were fair. Yet in the doorway of the drygoods firm of Hobbs & Thompson Miner Hobbs stood wrapped in gloom; the girls had giggled for him and at him vainly. More than eighty-six hours had passed bringing no word from his partner. Suddenly a vibration swept through the air as tangible as the pealing of bells. Ambrose was on his way back into Pennyroyal. The news must have had its origin somewhere out of sight, for now it was travelling swiftly by word of mouth. One moment the older men ceased arguing and spat widely, the girls turned their eyes away from their admirers, even the youths glanced up the hill, for the story grew that not only was Ambrose returning, but that he did not ride alone. By and by, though still some distance off, Miner beheld old Liza drawing the familiar gig. About her neck hung a garland of buttercups and daisies, above one twitching ear appeared a bouquet of wild flowers and sweet fern tied with flowing streamers of white cotton-back satin ribbon, while upright on the floor of the gig stood Ambrose. As the equipage advanced Miner leaned against his door frame. Ambrose was wearing a new stove-pipe hat, his swallow tailed coat revealed a new beflowered waistcoat, and in his buttonhole blossomed a rose. But Miner swept details aside. On Ambrose's face was the expression that has lit up the world, and by his side rode a strange girl never before seen in Pennyroyal. Ambrose was bowing from right to left, waving his hat in joyous circles of greeting, while the girl clung with one hand to an end of his coat and with the other clutched her paper-flower bouquet. When the gig had turned the corner into Linden street and was moving on toward the rose cottage the news of its approach had preceded it, for the wooden sidewalk close by was lined and there in the forefront stood Susan Barrows, her hands on her hips and her bunches of corkscrew curls bobbing. "Where on earth did you find _that_ girl, Ambrose Thompson?" she called out as soon as the couple were in hailing distance. Ambrose drove closer. "I didn't _find_ her, Miss Susan," he answered, lying like a saint. Mrs. Barrows' eyes bored like old gimlets sharpened from long use. "She's too young to be your housekeeper, and she ain't ugly," she said. "The town'll talk."