Beetrus’s ears rang. She had, however, that instinctive western courage which sometimes takes the place of disciplined self-control; so by no other clue than the deepening fire of her cheeks and eyes did she give Mr. Poundstone any knowledge of the disturbance he brought her when he climbed a passage over impediments and placed himself in the party. His manner was subdued, even becomingly humble and conciliatory. “Ma, this is Mr. Poundstone,” said Beetrus, secretly triumphant in being free from the subservience which yesterday would have made her say, “Mr. Poundstone, this is my mother.” She did not add to her unconsidered formula now, but allowed him to lift his hat and bow over her mother’s hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins,” said he. “I want to make friends with you, and get you to convince your daughter I’m not such a bad fellow as I look.” “You don’t look like a bad fellow,” she responded heartily. “I didn’t know you were going up on the boat,” said Beetrus, regarding with gentle indifference the brim of his hat, after he replaced it. “You know I couldn’t go off on the train and leave matters in the shape they are. I never sold a bill of goods in New Harmony in my life, but I’m going to try to make a satisfactory trade for myself now, if the house turns me off for it.” Beetrus parted her lips smiling, and this time met him in the eyes. Without formulating the fact, she knew there was sterling man under the crust of acquired coarseness. The brutal plan he had formed concerning her, and which he was now scarcely willing to acknowledge to himself, began to withdraw from betwixt them like the mist which already wavered on the hills. “I believe it will be a clear day to-morrow,” the girl said, falling back upon good commonplace. “Do you believe it will be a clear day to-morrow, Mrs. Jenkins?” inquired Poundstone. “Well, it seems like it might be pretty,” responded the widow, turning up her face to see the pinkness reflected from the west. “Then I believe it will too,” said the commercial traveler, with a devout air, which was unmoved by Beetrus’s laughing out,-- “A great deal prettier and clearer than to-day has been.” THE BRIDE OF ARNE SANDSTROM TIME, 1885 “Big Swede wedding over there this evening,” said one passer to another by his side. “Peter Lund’s daughter.” “Is she marrying a Swede?” inquired the second. “Yes; fellow by the name of Arne Sandstrom.” “I should think old Peter, well off as he is, would have looked higher for a son-in-law--you or me, for instance,” observed the second youth, with a laugh. “The girl’s pretty as a pink, and has had every advantage. It is a pity to see her thrown away; but old Peter has a lot of younger ones coming on.” “That makes it less an object. I thought she was his only. The Swedes are clannish.” “Peter Lund’s is headquarters for them, too. Here’s one now, hunting up the wedding. I’ll bet she’s just arrived from the old country.”