“Why, we’ve lots of neighbors, and they’re all such nice folks. The Robys are awful kind people, and only four miles, and the Atwills are only three, on the other side. And then the Indians drop in, but though I try to be good to them, it’s hard to like anybody so dirty. Dave says Red Horse and his band are not fair samples, for they are all young bucks that their fathers won’t be responsible for, and they certainly do steal. I don’t think they ever stole anything from us, ’cept one hog and three chickens and a jug of whiskey; but we always feed them well, and it’s a little trying, though maybe you’ll think I’m inhospitable to say so, to have half a dozen of them drop in and eat up a whole batch of light bread and all the meat you’ve saved for next day and a plumb jug of molasses at a sitting. That Red Horse is crazy for whiskey, and awful mean when he’s drunk; but he’s always been civil to us—There’s Mist’ Brown now!” Wickliff’s first glance at the man in the doorway showed him the same undersized, fair-skinned, handsome young fellow that he remembered; he wanted to shrug his shoulders and exclaim, “The identical little tough!” but Brown turned his head, and then Amos was aware that the recklessness and the youth both were gone out of the face. At that moment it went to the hue of cigar ashes. “Here’s the gentleman, David; my husband, Mist’ Wickliff,” said the wife. “Papa! papa!” joyously screamed the child, pattering across the floor. Brown caught the little thing up and kissed it passionately; and he held his face for a second against its tiny shoulder before he spoke (in a good round voice), welcoming his guest. He was too busy with his boy, it may be, to offer his hand. Neither did Amos move his arm from his side. He repeated his errand. Brown moistened his blue lips; a faint glitter kindled in his haggard eyes, which went full at the speaker. “_That’s_ what you want, is it?” “Well, if I want anything more, I’ll explain it on the way,” said Amos, unsmilingly. Brown swallowed something in his throat. “All right; I guess I can go,” said he. “To-morrow, that is. We can’t take pictures by moonlight; and the road’s better by daylight. Won’t you come out with me while I do my chores? We can—can talk it over.” In spite of his forced laugh there was undisguised entreaty in his look, and relief when Amos assented. He went first, saying under his breath, “I suppose this is how you want.”