That evening after the "sing," when the others, Charlie and Charlotta, Thad and Ruby and Lethie were starting down, and Fult, banjo in hand, prepared to linger, Isabel told him that she would be too busy about other things to learn ballads that night, and he must hurry down with the others. He went, with a darkened brow. The following days brought to him always the same bafflement. Isabel was as friendly and smiling as ever, but never by any chance or effort could he see her alone; Lethie was always on hand, and Isabel was especially solicitous, even affectionate, toward her. He waited, however, in expectation of the ride they were to have together on Sunday, to a funeral occasion over on Clinch. Several of the women, and some of the young folks from the village, were going in a party, for the first time deserting the Sunday School, which was to be conducted that day by just the kindergartner and the nurse, with Giles Kent's assistance. The pleasure of the women in the trip was marred, however, by some shooting in the village the night before--the first since they had been settled on the hill. The nurse, coming up early in the morning, after sitting up with Polly Ainslee, who had typhoid, reported that it was not done by Fult and his crowd, as the women had at first feared, but by some of the very young boys, who had in some way gotten whiskey. "Bob Ainslee came in the room where his mother was half dead with fever, and shot several times into the ceiling and then fell over on the other bed, too drunk to sit up," she said. "I wonder who is giving those boys liquor?" When they went down to the hotel to mount their nags, Virginia spoke of the disturbance to Fult. "I was so afraid at first it was your crowd," she said, "and so very thankful to hear it wasn't." Fult flushed. "Had you forgot what I done to Charlie the Fourth of July?" he asked. "I didn't really think you'd fail us," she said. "I wonder where those poor boys, Bob and the others, are getting whiskey?" "I reckon they could find hit up most any hollow, now the corn is laid by," he said. "They ought to have sense enough not to take too much." He had already noticed, and felt some surprise over the fact, that Lethie was in the crowd, saying her farewells to little Madison, who was to be kept by Cynthia Fallon. He knew that he had not asked her, or provided the nag. Silently he helped her, and the others, into their side-saddles; and, as soon as they had started, began to manœuvre so that he and Isabel should fall behind. But in vain. Nothing could detach her from Lethie's side.