While the host was busy caring for his tired horse, the big man, who did not remove the saddle from his mount, followed the girl into the cabin. “Can’t you even tell a feller, Howdy?” he exclaimed, as he entered the kitchen. “I did tell you, Howdy,” replied the girl sharply, stirring up the fire. “’Pears like you might o’ been a grain warmer about hit,” growled the other, seating himself where he could watch her. “If I’d been Young Matt er that skinny Ollie Stewart, you’d a’ been keen enough.” Sammy turned and faced him with angry eyes; “Look a here, Wash Gibbs, I done tol’ you last Thursday when you come for Daddy that you’d better let me alone. I don’t like you, and I don’t aim to ever have anything to do with you. You done fixed yourself with me that time at the Cove picnic. I’ll tell Daddy about that if you don’t mind. I don’t want to make no trouble, but you just got to quit pestering me.” The big fellow sneered. “I ’lowed you might change your mind ’bout that some day. Jim ain’t goin’ t’ say nothin’ t’ me, an’ if he did, words don’t break no bones. I’m a heap th’ best man in this neck o’ th’ woods, an’ your Paw knows hit. You know it, too.” Under his look, the blood rushed to the girl’s face in a burning blush. In spite of her anger she dropped her eyes, and, without attempting a reply, turned to her work. A moment later, Mr. Lane entered the room; a single glance at his daughter’s face, a quick look at Wash Gibbs, as the bully sat following with wolfish eyes every movement of the girl, and Jim stepped quietly in front of his guest. At the same moment, Sammy left the house for a bucket of water, and Wash turned toward his host with a start to find the dark faced man gazing at him with a look that few men could face with composure. Without a word, Jim’s right hand crept stealthily inside his hickory shirt, where a button was missing. For a moment Gibbs tried to return the look. He failed. Something he read in the dark face before him—some meaning light in those black eyes—made him tremble and he felt, rather than saw, Jim’s hand resting quietly now inside the hickory shirt near his left arm pit. The big man’s face went white beneath the tan, his eyes wavered and shifted, he hung his head and shuffled his feet uneasily, like an overgrown school-boy brought sharply to task by the master. Then Jim, his hand still inside his shirt, drawled, softly, but with a queer metallic ring in his voice, “Do you reckon it’s a goin’ t’ storm again?” At the commonplace question, the bully drew a long breath and looked around. “We might have a spell o’ weather,” he muttered; “but I don’t guess it’ll be t’night.” Then Sammy returned and they had supper. Next to his daughter, Jim Lane loved his violin, and with good reason, for the instrument had once belonged to his great-grandfather, who, tradition says, was a musician of no mean ability.