When the grinding was over for the day, he shut down the mill, and calling Moses to heel, went out on the old mill-race, where the upper gate was locked by a crude wooden spar known as the "key." He was standing under the sycamore, with this implement in his hand, when he discerned the figure of Molly approaching slowly amid the feathery white pollen which lay in patches of delicate bloom over the sorrel waste of the broomsedge. Without moving he waited until she had crossed the log and stood looking up at him from the near side of the stream. "Abel, are you still angry with me?" she asked, smiling. Dropping the key into the lock, he walked slowly to the end of the mill-race, and descended the short steps to the hillside. "No, I'm not angry--at least I don't think I am--but I've taken your advice and given you up." "But, Abel---" "I suppose you meant to take Mr. Mullen all the time that you were making a fool of me. He's a better man for you, probably, than I am." "Do you really think that?" she asked in a tone of surprise. "Would you like to see me married to him?" He hesitated an instant and then answered: "I honestly believe that it is the best thing for you to do." Instead of producing the effect he had foreseen his advice brought a luminous moisture to her eyes. "I suppose you think it would do me good to be preached to three times a day?" she rejoined. "Well, I believe it wouldn't hurt you, Molly," he responded with a smile. His attitude of renouncement drew her suddenly nearer. "It wasn't about Mr. Mullen that I came to talk to you--there is something else." "Surely you aren't thinking of Jim Halloween?" "No, no, it isn't a man. Why do you seem to think that the beginning and middle and end of my existence is a man? There are times when I find even a turkey more interesting." "It is about a turkey, then, that you have come to see me?" "Oh, no, it's a man, after all, but not a lover--he's Mr. Chamberlayne, the lawyer, from Applegate. Yesterday when he was spending the day at the big house, he came over to see me." "Had he never seen you before?" "Of course, when I was little--and later he took me to school in Applegate. I was to stay there until I was twenty-one you know, but I ran away the second year because grandfather fell ill with pneumonia and there was no one to look after him. You remember that, don't you?" "Yes, I remember. I picked you up on the road and brought you home in my gig. There was a heavy snow storm." "It seems that I was meant to be educated as a lady. Old Mr. Jonathan left a letter about it." "He did?--damn him! Why didn't he save himself the trouble by acting decently in the beginning?" "That was because of Mrs. Gay--he had promised her, when he thought she was dying, some dreadful thing. And after that he was afraid--afraid of her all his life. Isn't it terrible that such a saintly person should have caused so much sin?"