"I jest did what I ort to 'a' done," said Mrs. Slogan. "She ort to know the truth, an' I tol' 'er." "You could 'a' gone about it in a more human way," sighed Mrs. Dawson. "The Lord knows the child's had enough to worry 'er, anyway. She's been troubled fer the last week about him not comin' like he used to, an' she'd a-knowed the truth soon enough." An hour later supper was served, and though her aunt called to her that it was on the table, Sally Dawson did not appear, so the meal passed in unusual silence. The Slogans ate with their habitual zest, but the little bent widow only munched a piece of bread and daintily sipped her cup of buttermilk. Presently they heard the rasping sound of Sally's door as it was drawn open, and then they saw her go through the passage and step down into the yard. Rising quickly, Mrs. Dawson went to the door and looked out. She descried her daughter making her way hastily towards the gate. "Sally!" cried out the old woman, her thin voice cracking on its too high key, "Sally, wait thar fer me! Stop, I say!" The girl turned and waited for her mother to approach through the half-darkness, her face averted towards the road. "Sally, whar have you started?" The girl did not move as she answered: "Nowhere, mother; I--" The old woman put out her bony hand and laid it on the girl's arm. "Sally, you are not a-tellin' me the truth. You are a-goin' to try to see John Westerfelt." "Well, what if I am, mother?" "I don't believe I'd go, darlin'. I'd be above lettin' any triflin' man know I was that bad off--I railly would try to have a little more pride." Sally Dawson turned her head, and her eyes bore down desperately on the small face before her. "Mother," she said, "you don't know what you'd do if you was in my place." "I reckon not, darlin', but--" "Mother, I'll die if I don't know the truth. Once he told me if I ever heard one word against him to come to him with it, and I said I would. Maybe Aunt Clarissa is right about Lizzie an' him, but I've got to get it straight from him. He went to town to-day, and always drives along the road about this time." "Then I'll go out thar with you, Sally, if you will do sech a thing." "No, you won't, mother. Nobody has any right to hear what I've got to say to him." The old woman raised the corner of her gingham apron to her eyes as if some inward emotion had prompted tears, but the fountains of grief were dry. "Oh, Sally," she whimpered, "I'm so miserable! I'll never forgive yore aunt fer devilin' you so much, right now when you are troubled. I'll tell you what me 'n' you'll do; we'll git us a house an' move away from 'er." "I don't care what she says--if it's true," replied Sally. "If--if John Westerfelt has fooled me, I wouldn't care if it was printed in every paper in the State. If he don't love me, I won't care for nothin'. Mother, you know he made me think he loved--wanted me, at least--that was all I could make out of it."