As he says this, poor little Stumps stands up close against a tree, draws his head down, and pulls up his shoulders. "Yes, her long bony fingers resting on his head, holding him--and the faithful dog never moving for fear he would disturb her--for she was dead." "Oh, Mr. John Logan, don't tell me about it--don't!" and the girl's apron is again raised to her face as she shudders. "Poor old woman with the holler eyes," says Stumps to himself, in a tone that is scarcely audible. "But there, never mind." The strong, handsome fellow brushes a tear aside, and taking up his gun again, tries to be cheerful, and shake off the care that encompasses him. "And you got lonesome, and went down to see Sylvia Fields, didn't you?" Again the girl's foot swings, and she looks askance from under her dark, heavy hair, at John Logan. "Carrie, listen to me. Ever since I can remember, my mother waited and watched for my coming at my cabin door. But now, only think how lonely it is to live there. I can't go away. I have no fortune, no friends, no people. What would people say to me and of me out in the great world? Well, I went to Squire Fields, and I had a long talk with Sylvia." The girl starts, and almost chokes. "Been to see Sylvia Fields!" and with her booted foot she kicks the bark of a tree with all her might. "Had a long talk with her!" Then she whirls around, plunges her hand in her pocket, and swings her dress and says, as she pouts out her mouth, "Oh, I feel just awful!" John Logan approaches her. "Why, Carrie, what's the matter?" Carrie still swings herself, and turns her back to the man as she says, half savagely, "I don't know what's the matter, and I don't care what's the matter; but I feel just awful, I do! I feel just like the dickens!" "But, Carrie, you ought to be very, very happy, with all this beautiful scenery, and the sweet air in your hair and on your rosy face. And then what a lady you have grown to be! Now don't look cross at me like that! You ought to be as happy as a bird." "But I ain't happy; I ain't happy a bit, I ain't!" Then, after a pause she continues: "I don't like that Gar Dosson. He was here looking for you." "Here? Looking for me?" "Yes, and he called old Forty-nine Old Blossom-nose. I just hate him." "Oh, well, Carrie, you know Forty-nine does drink dreadfully, and you know he has got a dreadful red face." "Mr. John Logan," cries Carrie, hotly, "Forty-nine don't drink dreadfully. He don't drink dreadfully at all. He does take something for his ager, but he don't drink." "Well, his face is dreadful red, anyway," answers John Logan. Carrie, swinging her foot and thoughtfully looking up at the trees, says, after a pause: "Do the trees drink? Do the trees and the bushes drink, John Logan? Their faces get awfully red in the fall, too." "Carrie, you are cross to-day." Carrie, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her dress as if she would shake it off her, snaps: "I ain't cross."