TWO days after this, Nathan Porter brought home the news of what had happened to Floyd. The family were seated at the dinner-table when he came in warm from his walk along the dusty road. He started to sit down in his place without his coat, but Cynthia rose and insisted on his donning it.

“Folks is sech eternal fools!” he said, as he helped his plate to a green hillock of string-beans, from the sides of which protruded bowlders of gray bacon, and down which ran rivulets of grease.

“What have they been doing now?” asked his wife, curiously.

“They hain't doin' nothin' in town but talkin',” Porter said, in a tone of disgust. “Looks like all business has come to a dead halt, so that everybody kin exchange views about what Nelson Floyd has discovered about his kin. He's found a man—or Pole Baker did fer 'im, when Pole was drunk down in Atlanta—who don't deny he's his uncle—his daddy's own brother—an' you'd think Floyd had unearthed a gold-mine, from all the talk an' well-wishin' among the elect. Old Duncan an' Colonel Price helt a whole crowd spellbound at the post-office this mornin' with the'r tales about the past power an' grandeur of the Nelson an' Floyd families in America, an' all they'd done fer the'r country an' the like.”

“Father, is this true?” Cynthia asked, her face almost pale in suppressed excitement.

“I reckon thar's no doubt about it,” answered Porter. “Pole Baker's roarin' drunk, an' that always indicates that some'n' good or bad's happened to him or his friends. Thar hain't no money in Floyd's find. The Atlanta man's on the ragged edge; in fact, some say he never would 'a' confessed to the crime ef he hadn't heard that Nelson was well-to-do. I dunno. I hardly ever laugh, but I mighty nigh split my sides while Jim Carden was pokin' fun at 'em all. Jim says all the bon-tons in this section has been treatin' Floyd like a runt pig till now. The Duncans had a big blow-out at the'r house last night. Miss Evelyn's got some Atlanta gals an' boys thar at a house-party, an' the shindig was a big event. Jim said he was standin' nigh Floyd yesterday when he got his invite, an' that Nelson was about to refuse p'int-blank to go, beca'se he'd never been axed thar before he got his blood certificate; but Jim said Pole Baker was standin' thar about half-shot, swayin' back an' forth agin the desk, an' Pole up an' told Floyd that he'd have to accept—that he was as good as any in the land, an' to refuse a thing o' that sort would belittle 'im; an' so Nelson put on a b'iled shirt an' a dicky cravat an' went. Jim said his wife run over with a passle o' other women to help about the dinin'-room an' kitchen, an' that Floyd was the high-cockalorum of the whole bunch. He said all the women was at his heels, an' that nothin' was talked except the high an' mighty grandeur that's come an' gone among the Nelsons an' Floyds. Jim said Floyd looked like he wanted to crawl through a knot-hole in the floor. I'll say this fer that feller—blood or no blood, he hain't no dem fool, an' you mark my words, this thing hain't a-goin' to spile 'im nuther. You let a man make hisse'f in life, an' he hain't a-goin' daft about the flabby, ready-made sort.”

“You wait and see,” Mrs. Porter said, a sneer on her lips, as she critically eyed Cynthia's face. “A man that's as bad as he is, to begin with, will be worse when he is run after like that.”

“I dunno,” said Porter, his mouth full of beans. “I seed 'im give old Johnson Blare a cut this mornin' that tickled me powerful. The old skunk got out o' his rickety buggy in front o' the store an' went in to congratulate Floyd. I knowed what he was up to, an' follered 'im back to the desk. He told Floyd that he was a sort o' far-off cousin o' the Nelsons, an' that he was prouder of that fact than anything else in the world. I seed Floyd was mad as he looked at the old fellow with his high collar an' frazzley necktie. 'I'm gittin' tired o' the whole business,' Floyd said to 'im. 'I want to be appreciated, if I deserve it, for my own sake, an' not on account o' my dead kinsfolk.' An' that certainly did squelch old Blare. He shook all over when he went out.”

“I suppose Nelson Floyd will end up by marrying Evelyn Duncan or some of the Prices,” Mrs. Porter said, significantly, as she fastened her lynx eye on Cynthia's shrinking face.

“That seems to be the talk, anyway,” Porter admitted. “She belongs to the doll-faced, bandbox variety. She'd be a nice little trick to dandle on a fellow's knee, but that's about all she'd be good for.” After the meal was over, Mrs. Porter followed Cynthia out into the kitchen, whither the girl was taking a big pan full of soiled dishes.

“This ought to make you very careful, Cynthia,” she said.

“I don't know what you mean, mother.” The girl looked up coldly.

“Well, I know what I mean,” said Mrs. Porter. “People seem to think this will bring about a sort of change in Nelson Floyd's way of living. We are really as good as anybody in this county, but we are poor, and others are rich, and have more social advantages. Evelyn Duncan always has snubbed you girls around here, and no young man has been going in both sets. So far nobody that I know of has talked unkindly about you and Nelson Floyd, but they would be more apt to now than ever. How that thing about the mill ever escaped—”

“Mother, don't bring that up again!” Cynthia said, almost fiercely. “I have heard enough of it. I can't stand any more.”

“Well, you know what I mean, and you have my warning,” said Mrs. Porter, sternly, “and that's all I can do. As good and respectable a young man as ever lived wants to marry you, and the worst rake in the county has been paying you questionable attentions. The first thing you know, Mr. Hillhouse will get disgusted, and—”

But Cynthia had left her work and gone out into the yard. With a face quite pale and set, she went through the orchard, climbed over the brier-grown rail-fence, and crossed the field and pasture to Pole Baker's house. Mrs. Baker, pale and bedraggled, with a ten-months-old baby on her arm, stood on the little porch of the cottage. At her feet the other children were playing.

“You've heard o' my trouble, I kin see that,” the married woman said, as the girl opened the gate. “Come in out o' the sun.”

“Yes, I've heard,” said Cynthia, “and I came as soon as I could.”

They went into the poorly furnished bedroom, with its bare floor belittered with the playthings of the children, and sat down in the straight-backed, rockerless chairs.

“You mustn't notice the way things look,” sighed Mrs. Baker. “The truth is, Cynthia, I haven't had the heart to lay my hand to a thing. Pole's been away three nights and three days now, and I don't know what has happened to him. He's quick tempered and gets into quarrels when he's drinkin'. He may be in jail in Darley, or away off some'rs on the railroad.”

“I know, I know,” said Cynthia. “Let me hold the baby; you look as if you are about to drop.”

“I didn't sleep an hour last night,” said Mrs. Baker, as she relinquished the child. “I don't want to complain. He's so good-hearted, Cynthia, and he can't help it to save his life. He's the kindest, sweetest man in the world when he's all right; but these sprees mighty nigh kill me. Take my advice an' don't marry a drinkin' man fer all you do. No—no, not even if you love 'im! It's easier to tear one out o' your heart before you have children by 'im, an' God knows a pore woman ought to have some happiness and peace of mind. If Pole don't come home to-day I'm afraid I'll go crazy. Pore little Billy kept wakin' up last night and askin' about his papa. He can't understand. He fairly worships his father.”

“We must hope for the best,” Cynthia said, sympathetically, and she drew the baby up close to her face and kissed it tenderly.

Late in the afternoon Cynthia went home. She helped her mother prepare supper, and after it was over she followed the example of the others and retired to her room. For an hour she sat sewing at her table, every now and then stifling a sigh. She rose and looked out of her window, at the wing of the house on the left. It was dark; the family were already asleep. She would undress and go to bed, but she knew she would lie awake for a long time, and that she dreaded.

Just then a sound broke the stillness of the night. Ah, she knew it so well! She sank back into her chair, quivering from head to foot in excitement. It was the whippoorwill call. It came again, more insistent, more pleading, but Cynthia sat motionless. Again it came; this time it was as if the weird notes were full of aggrieved inquiry. What was the matter? Why was she delaying? Cynthia rose, moved to the door of her room, but with her hand on the latch she paused. Then she turned back to her table and blew out her light, and began to disrobe in the darkness. No, she would not go in that manner to him again—never—never! To expect such a thing of Evelyn Duncan would not have entered his mind. Her mother was right. Evelyn Duncan was one thing in his estimation—she another. In the darkness she got into bed and drew the covering over her head that she might shut out the sound, for it pained her. There was silence for several minutes, then she heard the night bird's call farther away in the direction of the swamp. Floyd was going home. For hours she lay awake, unable to sleep. Once she sat upright with a start. Perhaps that would be the end. Perhaps she had driven him away, when if only she had obeyed the promptings of her heart he and she might—but he was gone, and, according to her mother's cautious view, she had acted for the best; and yet how could she ever forget the vast respect with which he had treated her that night at the mill? If he had been a bad man he would have shown it then. But he wasn't; he was good and thoughtful of her feelings. And he had come to-night full of his recent discovery. He wanted to tell her all about it, as he had told her of other things touching his inner life, and she had repulsed him—driven him away—to Evelyn Duncan. A sob struggled up in her bosom and forced its way to the surface.

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