“That occurred to me while me and him was talking,” Walton said; “but I simply couldn't bring up a nasty thing like that at such a time. I thought that might as well rest; in fact, it looked to me like he thought his name had never been mixed up with it. You see, Toby, maybe the woman promised that it shouldn't get out, and has kept him from knowing of the report in order to bleed his pocket. At any rate, he don't seem to suspect what folks are saying here at home. I know he wants to keep _me_ in the dark, for he boldly asked me about Dora Barry, among other inquiries. I was astonished at it, but he wanted to know if she'd ever got married, and when I told him no, he went on to say that she was the best friend he'd ever had among the home girls, and that she had a beautiful character, and the like. He went on to say that she was the finest painter of pictures he had ever seen, and that when he left he was sure she would make a great artist out of her turn that way. He asked me if she had put her talent to any use, and I told him if she had I hadn't heard about it. Then he said--he did--that he was going to sit down and write her a friendly letter, and tell her where he was at, now that me and him had made up. I thought he was piling it on pretty heavy, you know, but I never let on.” “That was best, of course,” Toby opined, reflectively. “Folks are not apt to throw up a thing like that to a man who has turned over a new leaf, and it may be many a year before he discovers how much has really been talked on that line. But you didn't tell me, Mr. Walton. Did you see Fred's--did you see Mr. Whipple?”