The driver, somewhat abashed, gathered up the reins. “I didn't mean to make you mad,” he observed. “Anything in our line you want to order?” “No. I'm cal'latin' to go to the village myself this afternoon, and if I want any more groceries I'll order 'em then. As for makin' me mad--well, don't you flatter yourself. A moskeeter can pester me, but he don't make me mad but once--and his funeral's held right afterwards. Now trot along and keep in the shade much as you can. You're so fresh the sun might spile you.” The boy, looking rather foolish, laughed and drove out of the yard. Seth, his arms full, went back to the kitchen. He dumped the packages and newspapers on the table and began sorting the letters. “Here you are, Emeline,” he said. “Here's Miss Graham's mail and somethin' for you.” “For me?” The housekeeper was surprised. “A letter for me! What is it, I wonder? Somethin' about sellin' the house maybe.” She took the letter from him and turned to the light before opening it. Seth sat down in the rocker and began inspecting his own assortment of circulars and papers. Suddenly he heard a sound from his companion. Glancing up he saw that she was leaning against the doorpost, the open letter in her hand, and on her face an expression which caused him to spring from his chair. “What is it, Emeline?” he demanded. “Any bad news?” She scarcely noticed him until he spoke again. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said slowly. “Nothin' but--but what I might have expected.” “But what is it? It is bad news. Can't I help you? Please let me, if I can. I--I'd like to.” She looked at him strangely, and then turned away. “I guess nobody can help me,” she answered. “Least of all, you.” “Why not? I'd like to; honest, I would. If it's about that house business maybe I--” “It ain't” “Then what is it? Please, Emeline. I know you don't think much of me. Maybe you've got good reasons; I'm past the place where I'd deny that. I--I've been feelin' meaner'n meaner every day lately. I--I don't know's I done right in runnin' off and leavin' you the way I did. Don't you s'pose you could give me another chance? Emeline, I--” “Seth Bascom, what do you mean?” “Just what I say. Emeline, you and me was mighty happy together once. Let's try it again. I will, if you will.” She was staring at him in good earnest now. “Why, Seth!” she exclaimed. “What are you talkin' about? You--the chronic woman-hater!” “That be blessed! I wa'n't really a woman-hater. I only thought I was. And--and I never hated you. Right through the worst of it I never did. Let's try it again, Emeline. You're in trouble. You need somebody to help you. Give me the chance.” There was a wistful look in her eyes; she seemed, or so he thought, to be wavering. But she shook her head. “I was in trouble before, Seth,” she said, “and you didn't help me then. You run off and left me.” “You just as much as told me to go. You know you did.” “No, I didn't.” “Well, you didn't tell me to stay.”