“No, he didn’t wait,” was Porter’s answer. “The plucky chap went ’im one better; he sent word by Mel Jones to tell Wade that it would be indecent to have a rumpus like that in town on a Saturday, when so many women an’ childern was settin’ round in bullet-range, an’ so, if it was agreeable he’d ruther have it in the open place at Price’s spring. Mel passed me as he was goin’ to Jeff with that word. It’s nearly one o’clock now, an’ it’s my candid opinion publicly expressed that Nelson Floyd has gone to meet a higher Power. I didn’t want to be hauled up at court as a witness, an’ so, as I say, I hit the grit. I’ve been tied up in other folks’s matters before this, an’ the court don’t allow enough fer witness fees to tempt me to set an’ listen to them long-winded lawyers talk fer a whole week on a stretch.” “Poor fellow!” exclaimed Hattie Mayhew. “I’m right sorry for him. He was so handsome and sweet-natured. He had faults, but they may have been due to the hard life he had when he was a child. I must say I have always been sorry for him; he had the saddest look out of the eyes of any human being I ever saw.” “And he knew how to use his eyes, too,” was the sting Mrs. Porter added to this charitable comment as her sharp gaze still rested on her daughter. There was a sound at the window. Cynthia, with unsteady hands, was trying to raise the sash. She finally succeeded in doing this and placing the wooden prop under it. There was a steely look in her eyes and her features were set, her face pale. “It’s very warm in here!” they heard her say. “There isn’t a bit of draught in the room. It’s that hot cook stove, mother; I will—I——” She had turned and walked from the room. Mrs. Porter sighed as she looked after the departing form. “Did you notice her face, girls?” she asked. “It was as white as death itself. She looked as if she was about to faint. It’s all this talk about Floyd. Well, they _were_ friends. I tried to get her to stop receiving his attentions, but she thought she knew better. Well, he has got his deserts, I reckon.” “And all on account of the talk about that silly Minnie Wade!” cried Kitty Welborn, “when you know as well as I do, Mrs. Porter, that Thad Pelham—” The speaker glanced at Nathan Porter and paused. “Oh, you needn’t let up on yore hen-cackle on my account,” that blunt worthy made haste to say. “I’ll go out an’ look at my new hogs. You gals are out fer a day o’ pleasure, an’ I wouldn’t interfere with the workin’ of yore jaws fer a purty.” Mrs. Porter didn’t remain to hear Kitty Welborn finish her observation, but followed her daughter. In the next room, which was the dining-room, an old woman sat at a window. She was dressed in dingy black calico, her snowy hair brushed smoothly down over a white wrinkled brow, and was fanning herself slowly with a turkey-feather fan. She had Mrs. Porter’s features and thinness of frame. “Mother,” Mrs. Porter said, pausing before her, “didn’t Cynthia come in here just now?”