"Here's somebody you ought to know, Daise," remarked Lovina Nixon, coming in from feeding the calves: "Look down the road there."

Daisy turned from her ironing and crossed to the window.

"Yes, that's Dex," she said, coolly, as she looked out, "I can see the sewing-machine in the back of the rig, as plain as anything. Who would that be, with him, Mother? Oh, yes, I see—it's that Mrs. Rourke. Is she as flirty as ever?"

"Oh, she just acts flirty," Lovina answered, sticking up for her old crony, "nothin' wrong about Jen. She likes the men, an' she's full of the ol' Nick. But it's just fun, with her—that's all."

Presently the buggy of Dex Coleman, the agent who was responsible for district sewing machine sales, drew up in the yard. On the seat of it were two persons—a young man with a smooth face and red lips, and his hat a little to one side, and a buxom woman of about forty-five, with a color like a girl and a hand that slapped her knee as she tilted back her head and laughed. Her hat was also a little on one side—pushed into that position by a playful attempt of Mr. Coleman to kiss her.

"Well, I'm sorry the drive is ended," the latter was saying, as, having jumped out of the buggy, he reached up a chivalrous hand to assist down the healthy weight of Mrs. Jenny Rourke.

"Oh, indade," observed that lady, her head on one side and her foot on the step. "Well," she added, coquettishly, as she stepped lightly out, executed a little jig, clicked her heels together, stood up straight, and made a face at Mr. Coleman, "I'm to be the wan that's not sorry, then—is that it. You're a divil, Dexie!"

"Your sayin' that don't make it so-o, sweetheart," returned the sewing machine man, pleasantly; "kee-wick!" (This last a curious squirting sound, produced with tongue and cheek, as Mr. Coleman aimed an intimate jab at Mrs. Jenny Rourke's ribs.)

"Lave alone what don't concern you," was the advice this feat elicited from his driving companion, as she wrinkled an eye-corner at him over her shoulder, and vibrated (there is no other word that exactly describes the brisk teetering walk of Mrs. Jenny Rourke) off toward the house; "you sassy brat!"

The sedate and somewhat sour-faced Lovina was grabbed and all but lifted off her feet by the embrace of her friend, as the latter breezed into the farm kitchen. Then Mrs. Rourke turned and saw Daisy.

"Well, well, we-ell, an' how's the little squiress!" she roared, as she made for the girl; "come here, me darlin', and give me the feel of your pretty face. M-m-m!" and Mrs. Rourke kissed Daisy with a munching motion of her own full, handsome and still fresh lips.

"Where iver did ye pick up your knight o' the garter, in this country, alanna?" she exclaimed, holding Daisy at arms'-length between two virile palms; "why, in Canada they're as scarce as teeth in a hen. Sure, I hope he's an Old Country knight an' not just a mushroom Canadian 'Sir'. I love Canadians—especially young ones, whether they're he's or she's—but don't show me anny Canadian that's let them tack a handle to his name. What's like flannel pants an a negligee shirt to an Englishman, makes a Canadian look like a tailor's dummy. Where is he?"

"He's gone over with Jack to the new farm," Lovina put in, somewhat grumblingly, "they spend all their time over there, when Jack ought to be attendin' to his own work, if he expects to get his seedin' done in anyways decent time this spring."

At this, Mrs. Rourke let go of Daisy, bounced over, grabbed Lovina Nixon around the waist, threw her into a chair, and sat down plumply on her knee.

"Aw, Jen!" her friend protested, diffident and red, but cracking a shadowy smile for the first time that afternoon; "my hands is all dishwatery. Set down here yourself, n' let me work while we talk."

"You stay where you are, an' let the work go for an hour. Then I'll let you up, an' we'll both fall to; an' when the men comes in t'l their supper, there'll not be a pin out of place," rippled Mrs. Jenny Rourke; then she turned to Daisy and waved the hand of dismissal.

"Run on an' see your Dexie that used to be," she said, lowering her voice to a mischievous cooing, "sure, we'll not tell, if your husband's the jealous-minded kind. Dex knows you're here, the divil—that's why he's waitin' outside."

Daisy, conceding a smile and a little toss of her head, went out. As she passed through the door, the Irishwoman murmured, half to herself, her voice warm with approval: "Straight as a string, the dear, an' able to take care of herself, right from the time she first knew a boy was a boy. Sure, if I didn't know that, do ye think I'd send her out with that—that what-iver-ye-want-to-call-him. He needs managin', the worst way. There's not half enough discipline and reshtraint in the sewing machine business, Lovina darlin'."

Mr. Dex Coleman left the wheel of his buggy, upon which he had been draped gracefully, and came to meet Daisy, extending both hands.

"Well, look who's he-ere!" he fluted, melodiously, "little one, little one! there has been a pain where my heart is, you kno-ow, since some lying son of a seacook told me you were married. What, oh, what could you have been thinking about. Why-ee, I ain't slept a wink, not for days—not for da-ays, Dear."

Daisy, looking at him, blushed a little. She blushed because she remembered that, not so very long ago, when the method of his approach was new to her, her heart had fluttered a little in response to the addresses of this late-unripened, yodling, golden-noted, social abortion. But, now that she had become habituated to men, the blush was accompanied by a smile—a smile that wrinkled her nose a little, as the eau-de-cologned Coleman floated close.

"Does the heart still beat true?" enquired Mr. Dexter Coleman, "crushing" her hands in fingers that were a workless white, except where cigarettes had stained them yellow, "does it—little one?" Studying the slight blush on Daisy's cheeks, Mr. Coleman missed those danger-lights, her eyes.

For the imp of mischief had sprung up in the girl like a kindled flame, in which danced the two-horned and tridented devil of daring.

"Shall we—s-shall we go for a little drive, Dexie?" she said, making her voice low, and leaning her head for a second against the lapel of the Coleman coat.

"Shall we?" Mr. Coleman straightened his willowy six feet with a spring-like abruptness; "oh, shall we! We sure shall, Cutest. This way in, an' that way out—huh?"

So saying, and with a not unmuscular arm, the speaker "boosted" Daisy into the buggy, sprang in himself, and pointed down the Toddburn trail.

"More room, goin' south," he observed, pulling on a pair of smart driving-gauntlets, and jerking the whip out of its holder; "hey—shake yourself, old-timer," this last to the livery horse, as he cut it stingingly around the legs with the whip. The animal started; kicked out; then set back its ears and broke into an angry trot, its head aside and the white of an eye showing.

"He don't love me a little bit," commented Mr. Coleman, complacently, his whip poised for another cut.

"Let me drive," came from Daisy, with a sharpness she could not keep out of her tone, "and give me the whip." Without waiting for compliance, she caught the reins from her companion; then pulled the whip out of his hand and dropped it into the holster.

Mr. Coleman, his hands thus summarily freed, leaned back in pleased soliloquy, regarding Daisy's curves and color out of the corner of his eye.

"Now you're cleared for lovin'," was the mental interpretation he put on Daisy's action, "so it'll all up to you—all up to you, boy."

"This sure is the life—ain't it Sweetness," was the audible remark with which he moved closer on the seat. Daisy knew that the arm which crept along the back of the seat, behind her shoulders, was on its way to her waist; but, her nerves tingling, she let it creep.

It was a fine, breezy, spring day. The road, along the uplands, was dry; but the recently-melted, winter snow had flooded the ravines, and where the trail descended into these, it was, more often than not, necessary to make a detour around the edge of a slough. Where the road-allowance was fenced on both sides, most farmer owners had obligingly opened panels of their fences to allow a loop aside where there was an unusually miry grade. But there were a few places where the barb-wire rampart remained inhospitably closed, with the farmer's house threateningly in view on an adjoining hillock, and surreptitious use of "pliers" out of the question. Here there was nothing for it but to drive through the mud, which sometimes, diluted to the consistency of paste, came as high as the hubs of the wheels.

"Behave, you!" said Mr. Coleman, sternly. He was addressing his own hand, which, during Daisy's contemplation of the landscape, had moved down until it now lightly touched her waist.

"I can't do nothin' with it, you see," he complained, a moment later, as the recalcitrant arm settled itself snugly about his companion; "just look at it now, Precious!"

"I see it," Daisy responded, looking straight before her; "looks kind of becoming, doesn't it, Dexie?"

"Mighty becomin', if you ask me," corroborated the arm's proprietor, warmly "I think it ought to stay right there, now I notice how it looks."

Following this remark, Mr. Coleman stole a glance at the cheek that was turned his way. The glance intoxicated him. He tightened his grip, edged close, and dropped suddenly from jest to earnestness.

"Say!" he breathed into her ear, "let's just keep on goin', little girl."

"Where?"

"Right on to town. Train comes in at six pee-ex. Little supper in the hotel here, an' then board her. What do we care?"

"Aw, but, Dexie, what will people say?"

"I don't give a whoop what they say—why should you mind? I can take a chance, if you can, Sweetheart. Come on: be a sport!"

"Aw, Dexie!"

"That's m'little girl. I knew you was game. Give us a sweet kiss now—come awn. Whass matter?"

"The wind's pulling my hat loose," said Daisy, "I'll take it off."

"That's th' idea," approved Mr. Coleman, reining his impatience.

They were descending a hill, at the bottom of which a slough crossed the trail. Fences to right and left forbade a detour.

"I guess we'll have to drive right through it," said Daisy.

"How about the hat?" demanded Mr. Coleman, who was now so close that his companion could barely move her elbow, "can't you get it off?"

"Oh," Daisy looked up innocently, "I forgot about the hat. All right—there, it's off."

She took off the hat and laid it in her lap. They had now reached the edge of the shallow slough in the valley-bottom, into which the livery horse waded, gingerly and slow.

"Maybe he wants a drink," said Daisy; "whoa, pettie! Thirsty?"

The horse halted and lowered his head to the water-level.

"Poor fellow!" Daisy commented, as he drank in great famished gulps, "don't you ever water him, Dex? Aw, quit! Aw-w—you're mean! There, now—see what you've done," and, as Coleman, red and hot-eyed, drew back from kissing her, Daisy pointed to her hat, afloat on the slough.

"That's nothin'," said Coleman, regarding the hat as it slowly floated away from the side of the buggy.

"Oh, no," said Daisy, with sarcasm, "it just means I've got to go home and get another hat, before we start on this trip you were speaking of. I won't go into Toddburn bareheaded—not even for you."

Coleman rose from his seat. "I'll sure get it for you, right now, Sweetness," he said, "if that's how you feel about it."

"Well, you'd better hurry, for it's sailing away," Daisy advised; "no, you can't reach it over the wheel. You'll have to stand out on the step."

Mr. Dexie Coleman, who believed in doing everything with grace and ease, scorned to grip the honest buggy-top for sensible support, as he poised himself on the iron step, like Hermes, tiptoe for flight, and extended an arm out over the water. He calculated, and rightly, that he could just reach the hat and keep his balance.

But he had not reckoned with a gathering force behind him; and perhaps there was no more surprised man in Toddburn than this cavalier of the sewing machine when, a second or two later, just as his fingers closed upon the hat, a strong push from rearward propelled him sprawlingly into the slough. The water was only three feet deep; but, as he fell horizontally, he went right under.

Mr. Coleman's astonishment at the turn events had taken was so intense that he, as one might say, reclined for a moment in the bottom of the slough, with the water roaring in his ears and choking in his throat, before he gathered his wits together sufficiently to grope to his feet. By the time he had regained a wet uprightness, sputtered the muddy water out of his mouth, and blinked his eyes till vision returned, he found that he was alone in the slough. Daisy had driven the horse out on the farther shore, and was just getting out of the buggy. Mr. Coleman, watching in a fascinated way, with too much water still in his windpipe to speak, saw his late companion loop up the horse's lines in the backhand ring, knotting them so they would not fall and tangle the animal; then give the beast a smart little slap on the flank that started it off at a brisk trot down the trail.

"Whoa, there!" Mr. Coleman found breath to exclaim, in a thin aqueous squeal, as he paddled splashingly and frantically toward land. But the horse, headed toward its evening meal of loft-dried hay and oats in the Toddburn livery stable, exchanged its trot for a canter, and kept on going.

"You'll have to go some, to catch him," said Daisy, levelly and unsmiling; "he knows when he's well off." She kept her eyes steadily on Coleman, tightening her grip on the handle of the horsewhip which she had retained.

"Ha-agh!"

This is the nearest possible phonetic representation of the sound which came from the man's throat, as he jumped at her. But Daisy was alert and strong and full of fight. She stepped back and swung the horsewhip. The sharp impact of the lash plucked the skin from the centre of Coleman's right cheek. Returning "backhanded," the whip raised a weal along the left side of his face, extending from mouth to ear. Coleman stopped, straightened, and put his hand to his cheek, down which the blood was running.

"So you were going to hit me, were you?" flashed Daisy, breathless and sparkling. "You're some man!"

There is something salutary and restorative about the rod—that corrective instrument recommended by Solomon the Wise. Perhaps it is less the sting than the shame—although one must admit that both must go together, to produce the effect.

Dexie Coleman, all the bad humor gone out of him, sat down dejectedly on a boulder. For the moment, he forgot pose,—forgot that his face was muddy and bleeding, his hair rumpled, his clothes soaked and dripping—forgot himself altogether.

"I'm a mean son of a gun, ain't I?" he said.

Daisy looked at him a moment narrowly and coldly. But there was neither flutter of eyelash nor any other indication that he was "putting it on." The girl's face softened a little.

"What are you always trying to be somebody else for, Dexie?" she said; "talking like a vaudeville actor, and trying to be a 'bad man' with the girls, and smoking yourself to death with cigarettes, and trying to 'land soft jobs' like driving around the country with sewing machines. You're just an honest farm boy—why don't you be one? Get out and do some real work, and get tanned up a little, and skin your nice white hands on a pitchfork-handle."

Dex Coleman got off the stone and stood up. He was really a very well-built young man, and his wet clothes, clinging to him like tights, showed it.

"I'm goin'," he said briefly, "no use of parley-vooin' around here."

He rammed his hands in his wet pockets and, avoiding Daisy's eye, stalked away. He forgot to lift his hat, for which Daisy's heart warmed to him. It was rude; but it showed he was ashamed of himself. A young man shows shame by rudeness.

"Better come back and let me wash the blood off your face," Daisy called.

"Oh, to blazes with it!" came back gruffly, over Coleman's shoulder; then, after an interval of three strides' duration, "so-long—Kid."

The supper-table in the Nixon farmhouse was vacated by the time Daisy reached home. Mrs. Rourke was in the act of putting her supper in the oven to keep it warm; and Lovina Nixon was collecting the soiled dishes and piling them on the side-table for washing-up. John Nixon was deep in contemplation of the cuts in the harness and hardware section of a department store catalogue. Ware turned from the window, out of which he had been looking. A vague anxiety, newborn this evening, seemed to light the eyes he rested on Daisy as she entered.

As though he were the only person in the room, Daisy, looking neither to right nor left, came straight toward him from the door. She put her arms up, drew his face down, and kissed him on the lips.

"I want my hubby," she whispered, "my own hubby—bestest in the world!"

Ware's arms folded about her and he held her close.

Jim Burns, who had observed this tableau through the window, as he approached the house from outside, changed his mind about coming in. Jamming his hat over his eyes, he picked up a feed-pail and turned back toward the barn.

"Everything's all right now, anyway," he murmured, "whatever was the matter before. I guess likely my talking-to done him good."