Indie was sweeping the back yard when some one strode up the pebbled walk with brisk, business-like steps, which she mistook for Mr. Griggs’s walk, for he had promised to stop in on his homeward way. But it was not the agent. It was Indie’s old friend Lem Powers, whom she had so timidly avoided for years. His broad-brimmed hat was turned up squarely in front, framing his dark, strong, sunny face in a sort of a rough halo. “Evenin’, Indie,” said he, with a tug at his up-standing hat-brim. “Do you happen to have a wrench about the place? My buggy wheel’s locked an’ I ain’t got no tools with me.” Indie shook down her sleeves hurriedly, keenly conscious of her unpleasing appearance. “Won’t you set down while I hunt up the wrench?” she asked, nodding toward the veranda bench. “I’ve done packed up everything, but I can find the wrench easy’s not.” “Packed up!” the young man echoed in blank astonishment, with a sweeping glance at the denuded premises. “Why, you don’t aim to move, do you?” “I expect to leave Shallow Ford to-morrer mornin’,” Indie answered solemnly. “You don’t say so? Goin’ to live with your cousins?” “No, oh no,” Indie answered quickly, with a dry smile. “None of them ain’t never asked me to live with ’em, and even if they had I wouldn’t go.” “I didn’t know you had other kin.” “I ain’t. I aim to go to Birmingham to work in the factory. I seen a advertisement callin’ for twenty new hands and I thought it would be a good chance to get started.” “Whatever put that idee into your head, I’d like to know? I don’t b’lieve you’ll like the work one bit, Indie,” the young man said with grim conviction. “It ain’t healthy, to begin with. Don’t you rec’lect how pale an’ peekedy them Baldwins looked when they come back here on a visit after havin’ worked in the thread factory down at Birmingham? They didn’t have the sperit of a jack rabbit between ’em, an’ their ways was plum changed too—sorter forrard like. You won’t like the sort of company they keep, Indie.” “I’ve got to go now,” said Indie, doggedly, “cause I’ve done put the place for sale. Mr Griggs thinks he can sell it without any trouble.” “He may. Indie, is it on account of the mortgage you’re leavin’?” Indie shook her head. She could not tell Lem her real motive. “’Cause if it is,” said Lem, earnestly, “I’d be only too glad to stand good for the debt if you’ll let me.” Indie’s pale face reddened painfully, and her head went back an inch or two, for she had her pride in spite of her helplessness. “I couldn’t ever raise enough truck to pay off the debt, anyhow,” she answered coldly. “You could rent the place an’ pay off that way. I do wish you would let your old friends do a little something for you, Indie,” he pleaded, growing red and embarrassed under her increasing coldness. “It’s too late to rent now, ’cause it’s way past corn-plantin’ time,” Indie objected, “an there ain’t nothin started but two acres o’ roastin’ ears an’ some garden truck.”