THE following evening was balmy and moonlit. Hillhouse was at Porter's just after supper, seated on the porch in conversation with Mrs. Porter.

“Yes, I believe I'd not ask her to see you to-night,” she was advising him. “The poor girl seems completely fagged out. She tries to do as much about the house as usual, but it seems to tire her more. Then she doesn't eat heartily, and I hear her constantly sighing.”

“Ah, I see,” Hillhouse said, despondently. “Yes,” the old woman pursued, “I suppose if you finally get her to marry you, you'll have to put up with the memory that she did have a young girl's fancy for that man, Brother Hillhouse. But she wasn't the only one. The girls all liked him, and he did show a preference for her.”

“Has she—has she heard the latest news—the very latest?” Hillhouse asked, anxiously. “Has she heard the report that Henry A. Floyd told Mr. Mayhew he had met Nelson and revealed that awful news about his parentage?”

“Oh yes; Mrs. Snodgrass came in with that report this morning. She knew as well as anything that Cynthia was excited, and yet she sat in the parlor and went over and over the worst parts of it, watching the girl like a hawk. Cynthia got up and left the room. She was white as death and looked like she would faint. Mrs. Snodgrass hinted at deliberate suicide. She declared a young man as proud and high-strung as Nelson Floyd would resort to that the first thing. She said she wouldn't blame him one bit after all he's suffered. Well, just think of it, Brother Hillhouse! Did you ever hear of anybody being treated worse? He's been tossed and kicked about all his life, constantly afraid that he wasn't quite as respectable as other folks. And then all at once he was taken up and congratulated by the wealth and blood around him on his high stand—and then finally had to have this last discovery rammed in his face. Why, that's enough to drive any proud spirit to desperation! I don't blame him for getting drunk. I don't blame him, either, for not wanting to come back to be snubbed by those folks. But what I do want is fer him not to drag me and mine into his trouble. When my girl marries, I want her to marry some man that will be good to her, and I want him to have decent social standing. Even if Floyd's alive, if I can help it, Cynthia shall never marry him—never!”

“Does Miss Cynthia believe,” ventured the preacher, “that Floyd has killed himself?”

“I don't think she believes that, quite,” was Mrs. Porter's reply; “but she doesn't seem to think he'll ever come back to Springtown. Don't you worry, Brother Hillhouse. She'll get over this shock after a while, and then she'll appreciate your worth and constancy. If I were you, I'd not press my claim right now.”

“Oh, I wouldn't think of such a thing!” Hillhouse stroked a sort of glowing resignation into his chin, upon which a two-days beard had made a ragged appearance. “I've been awfully miserable, Sister Porter, but this talk with you has raised my hopes.” Mrs. Porter rose with a faint smile. “Now, you go home and write another good sermon like that last one. I watched Cynthia out of the corner of my eye all through it. That idea of its being our duty to bear our burdens cheerfully—no matter how heavy they are—seemed to do her a lot of good.” The color came into Hillhouse's thin face, and his eyes shone. “The sermon I have in mind for next Sunday is on the same general line,” he said. “I'm glad she listened. I was talking straight at her, Sister Porter. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I've been unable to think of anything but her since—since Floyd disappeared.”

“You are a good man, Brother Hillhouse”—Mrs. Porter was giving him her hand—“and somehow I feel like you will get all you want, in due time, remember—in due time.”

“God bless you, sister,” Hillhouse said, earnestly, and, pressing the old woman's hand, he turned away.