But now Liza had stopped of her own accord in front of home, and Ambrose, letting go of his reins, put his arm about the girl. Under the new poke bonnet her face was pale except for the scarlet of her lips and her dark eyes that never left their refuge. The sensitive point to her companion's long nose quivered. Coming toward them he could see Miner's six pink-and-white, blond sisters, and in their wake the dark little man. Miner was walking like a man at a funeral, with his head bowed, and that he did not wear a band of crepe upon his arm was only that he had lacked opportunity; everything else suggested a pall. At the same instant, round the corner of the cottage, trotted Moses, waving his tail and wearing a smile of forgiveness. One look, and ignoring his master's friendly whistle, the little dog disappeared, not to be seen again for three days. Silently Ambrose lifted the stranger down to the boardwalk and with his arm still about her turned to face Susan. Perhaps there was something of appeal in the familiar solemnity of his gaze and in his whimsical drawl: "We'll let the town talk, Susan, won't we, or it'll bust?" he replied quietly. "No, ma'am, she ain't my hired housekeeper; no ma'am, she ain't no relation of mine; that is, no born blood kin." With this he began leading Sarah to the shelter of his own yard and, drawing her in, closed the gate. "But we're pretty closely related, Susan." Purposely Ambrose's voice was raised. He then took a few irresistibly jubilant steps backward and forward, swinging the girl with him. "She's my wife!" PART TWO HIS SECOND WIFE "_Heaven mend us all_" CHAPTER VI RECONSTRUCTION "HOW long has it been since, Mrs. Barrows?" asked the Baptist minister. "Eight years, Brother Bibbs," Susan answered. They were standing in front of Susan Barrows' cottage one late June afternoon in the summer of 1866. The minister sighed, flapping his worn coat-tails as a signal of distress. Mrs. Barrows was gazing at the house next door. There the lilac bush which had showed its first blossoms on that morning of Ambrose's runaway had grown to full estate. Its season having passed, however, it was no longer in bloom, but instead, the climbing rose, known in the South as the "Seven Sisters," was spreading itself above the front door, bestowing its flowers against the background of the once rose-coloured cottage. Susan's black curls moved reminiscently, eight years having wrought no changes in her beyond the deepening of the original plan. "Yes, eight years since Ambrose Thompson brought that orphan child home, and two since she passed away. Seems that Ambrose wouldn't never have got off even one year to the war if she hadn't gone on before, seein' as she wasn't never willing to let him out of her sight a minute longer'n she could help." "A deeply affectionate nature," remarked the minister.