THE next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Porter told her husband to harness the horse and hitch him to the buggy. “I've got some butter ready to sell,” she explained, “and some few things to buy.”

“You'll gain lots by it,” Nathan sneered, as he reluctantly proceeded to do her bidding. “In the fust place it will take yore time fer half a day, the hoss's time fer half a day, an' the wear an' tear on the buggy will amount to more than all you git fer the butter. But that's the way women calculate. They can't see an inch 'fore the'r noses.”

“I can see far enough before mine to hear you grumbling at dinner about the coffee being out,” she threw back at him; “something you, with all your foresight, forgot yesterday.”

“Huh, I reckon the old lady did hit me that pop!” Nathan admitted to himself as he walked away. “Fust thing I know I'll not be able to open my mouth—women are gittin' so dern quick on the trigger—an', by gum, I did forgit that coffee, as necessary as the stuff is to my comfort.”

When Porter brought the horse and buggy around a few minutes later his wife was ready on the porch with her pail of neatly packed butter. Cynthia came to the door, but her mother only glanced at her coldly as she took up her pail and climbed into the vehicle and grasped the reins.

Reaching Mayhew & Floyd's store, she went in and showed the butter to Joe Peters, who stood behind one of the counters.

“I want eighteen cents a pound,” she said. “If towns-people won't pay it, they can't eat my butter. Butter for less than that is white and puffy and full of whey.”

“What did you want in exchange for it, Mrs. Porter?” the clerk asked. “In trade, you know, we do better than for cash.”

“I want its worth in coffee,” she said, “that's all.”

“We'll take it, then, and be glad to get it,” Peters said, and he put the firm, yellow lumps on the scales, made a calculation with a pencil on a piece of wrapping-paper, and began to put up the coffee. Meanwhile, she looked about her. Mayhew sat at a table in the rear. The light from a window beyond him, falling on his gray head, made it look like a bunch of cotton.

“I reckon he's keeping his own books now that Nelson Floyd's away?” she said, interrogatively, to the busy clerk.

“A body mought call it book-keepin',” Peters laughed, “but it's all I can do to make out his scratchin'. He writes an awful fist. The truth is, we are terribly upset by Floyd's absence, Mrs. Porter. His friends—folks that like 'im—come fer forty miles, clean across the Tennessee line, to trade with him, and when they don't see him about they go on with empty wagons to Darley. It's mighty nigh runnin' the old man crazy. He sees now who was butterin' his bread. Ef Nelson was to come back now the old cuss 'ud dress 'im out in purple an' fine linen an' keep 'im in a glass case.”

“Do you expect Floyd to come back?” Mrs. Porter was putting the damp napkin back into her empty pail. Indifference lay in her face and voice but had not reached her nervous fingers.

“Mrs. Porter”—Peters spoke lower. He came around the counter and joined her on the threshold of the door—“I'm a-goin' to let you on to some'n' that I'm afeard to tell even the old man. The Lord knows I wouldn't have Mrs. Snodgrass an' her team git hold of it fer the world. You see, ef I was to talk too much I mought lose my job. Anyway, I don't want to express an opinion jest on bare suspicion, but I know you've got a silent tongue in yore head, an' I think I know, too, why yo're interested, an' I'm in sympathy with you an'—an' Miss—an' with all concerned, Mrs. Porter.”

“You said you were going to tell me something,” the old woman reminded him, her glance on the court-house across the street, her voice tense, probing, and somewhat resentful of his untactful reference to Cynthia.

“I'm a-goin' to tell you this much,” said Peters, “but it's in strict confidence, Mrs. Porter. Thar has been a lot o' letters fer Floyd on all sorts o' business affairs accumulatin' here. Mayhew's been openin' 'em all an' keepin' 'em in a stack in a certain pigeon-hole of the desk. Now, I seed them letters thar jest last night when I closed the store, an' this mornin' early, when I opened up an' was sweepin' out, I missed 'em.”

“Ah, I see!” exclaimed Mrs. Porter, impulsively. “Well, ef you do, you see more'n me,” Peters went on, “fer I don't know how it happened. It's bothered me all day. You see, I can't talk to the old man about it, fer maybe he come down here some time last night an' got 'em fer some purpose or other. An' then ag'in—well, thar is jest three keys to the house, Mrs. Porter, the one the old man has, the one I tote, an' the one Nelson Floyd tuck off with 'im.”

“So you have an idea that maybe—”

“I hain't no idea about it, I tell you, Mrs. Porter, unless—unless Nelson Floyd come back here last night an' come in the store an' got his mail.”

“Ah, you think he may be back?”

“I don't know that he is, you understand, but I'm a-goin' to hope that he ain't dead, Mrs. Porter. Ef thar ever was a man I loved—that is to say, downright loved—it was Nelson Floyd. La me! I could stand here from now till sundown an' not git through tellin' you the things he's done in my behalf. You remember—jest to mention one—that mother had to be tuck to Atlanta to Dr. Winston to have a cancer cut out. Well, she had no means, an' I didn't, an' we was in an awful plight—her jest cryin' an' takin' on day an' night in the fear o' death. Well, Nelson got onto it. He drawed me off behind the store one day—as white as a sheet, bless your soul! fer it mighty nigh scared the boy to death to be ketched at his good acts—an' he up an' told me he was goin' to pay the whole bill, but that I mustn't tell nobody, an' I wouldn't tell you now ef mean reports wasn't out agin 'im. I hardly knowed what to do, fer I didn't want to be beholden to 'im to sech a great extent, but he made me take the money, an', as you know, mother got well ag'in. Then what did he do but raise my wages away up higher than any clerk in this part o' the state gits. That mighty nigh caused a split betwixt him an' the old man, but Nelson had his way. I tried to pay some on the debt, but he wouldn't take it. He wouldn't even let me give 'im my note; he'd always laugh an' turn it off, an' of late it sorter made 'im mad, an' I simply had to quit talkin' about it.”

“He had his good side.” Mrs. Porter yielded the point significantly. “I never denied that. But a man that does good deeds half the time and bad half the time gets a chance to do a sort of evil that men with worse reputations don't run across.” Mrs. Porter moved away towards her buggy, and then she came back, and, looking him straight in the eye, she said, “I hardly think, Joe, the fact that those letters are missing proves that Nelson Floyd was here last night.”

“You don't think so, Mrs. Porter?” Peters' face fell.

“No; Mr. Mayhew no doubt took them to look over. I understand he and Pole Baker are trying to get track of Floyd. You see, they may have hoped to get some clew from the letters.”

“That's a fact, Mrs. Porter,” and, grown quite thoughtful, the clerk was silent as he helped her into her buggy.

“Huh!” she said to herself, as she started off.

“Floyd's done a lot o' good deeds, has he? I've known men to act like angels to set their consciences at rest after conduct that would make the bad place itself turn pink in shame. I know your kind, Nelson Floyd, and a little of you goes a long way.”