My cheerful, almost sprightly manner, at breakfast on the morning of Aunt Sophy's wedding-day cost me an effort, for instead of being able to make Marion a present of Waydean, as I had planned, I was compelled to conceal the depression I felt at the news from my agent that Peter had sold the place to the "other party," Roper's client. I noticed, during breakfast, that Marion and Aunt Sophy were continually exchanging confidential smiles and glances that were not intended to include me, for they looked consciously unconscious and avoided my eyes when I happened to intercept one of the silent messages. Still, I was so engaged in looking happy and free from care that the idea of Marion having prepared a surprise for me never entered my mind, although I wondered, when she handed me my mail which William had brought from the post-office, why they both stared at me with such an appearance of eager expectation. At the bottom of the pile my eye was attracted by an envelope with, "Bates and Roper, Land Agents," printed in one corner. It was addressed to Marion, and as I held it up inquiringly she clapped her hands with delight and urged me with impatient vehemence to read it. With a sickening premonition of what was coming I drew out the enclosure with trembling fingers and read a formal notification from the firm to Mrs. Henry Carton that they had, according to instructions, made an agreement with Peter Waydean for the purchase of his farm for the sum of five thousand, one hundred dollars. For a moment I forgot Marion and Paul and Aunt Sophy as I stared at the paper with open mouth and distended eyes, a ghastly gray-green pallor, so Marion told me afterwards, spreading over my face. A smothered shriek of alarm and the first strident prolonged note of Paul's howl brought me to my senses; my eyes turned slowly with the glassy stare of an owl. I had a jumbled idea that Marion's money was gone, also mine, also the farm; we had been bidding against each other and were ruined.

"What is it, Henry?" gasped Aunt Sophy, pressing one hand to her side and breathing heavily.

"Speak, Henry!" cried Marion.

"We've been sold—buncoed—duped. Old Peter—" I began thickly.

"You goose!" exclaimed Marion, with a laugh of sudden relief. "You misunderstand the letter. Of course old Peter has sold the place, but to me!—to me—do you understand? And I hereby make you a present of it to-day, because——"

"Because it's my wedding-day," interjected Aunt Sophy, wiping away tears of happiness. "I thought I'd like to see how pleased and proud you'd look before I go."

I awoke to my responsibilities and made a sickly attempt to look gratified. "What a—joyful surprise!" I stammered. "Awfully obliged—not so much for—pecuniary value—as a token of—the day that—" My voice was lost in a peal of laughter.

"Oh, how funny! Just like your Uncle Philip, Marion."

"He always will have his little joke, Auntie. Come now, Henry, do be serious, and I'll tell you what a narrow escape we had. There was another man—Mr. Roper called him a 'party'—after the place."

"After the place!" I repeated, with profound incredulity.

"There now—I thought you'd be startled. This man had employed Mr. Brooks to negotiate with Peter, and he kept bidding higher and higher till I was awfully afraid he'd get it. Then I got desperate, and I drew the hundred dollars that I had in the savings bank, for I had an idea that the 'party' would stop at five thousand—and he did—and just yesterday Peter signed the agreement, and I have the cheque for five thousand one hundred dollars all ready to pay over as soon as the legal documents are signed."

"Well," I commented, drawing a long breath, "it's a good thing he stopped."

"And wasn't Marion clever to manage so well?" asked Aunt Sophy.

"She was indeed," I responded warmly. "I would have given up at five thousand."

Then Marion wondered who the man was, speaking as if he had ceased to exist, and so did Aunt Sophy. I was on the point of wondering also, when it struck me that I could not truthfully do so, and I merely said that as I knew Brooks pretty well he would probably mention the man's name to me, a statement that was unassailable even from Marion's pinnacle of morality, and one that helped me to keep my secret until after Aunt Sophy's departure.

It was well that I had completed my arrangements the day before, for I was so distraught by the ordeal I had passed through that I had difficulty even in remembering that I must hurry away to the station to meet Mr. Fairman, who was due to arrive on the ten o'clock train, and must be entertained by me until the minister appeared to perform the marriage ceremony at eleven. Not having an equipage of my own, I had hired the most presentable one to be found in the neighborhood, and the horse being warranted tractable by his owner, Joe Wrigley, I had no hesitation in driving to the station and back myself, although as a usual thing, if I have to be near a horse I prefer to be in a position where I can look him in the eye.

I had been rather irritated by William's behavior that morning, for he had disappeared for an hour after breakfast just when I most needed him, and when he did appear he explained that he had been busy in the smokehouse rigging up a scarecrow and hadn't heard me calling him. This excuse seemed plausible at the time, though I remembered afterwards it was not the season to scare crows, for he had got permission from Marion the day before to take a discarded sun-bonnet of hers and a pair of Paul's long rubber boots for the purpose, so I warned him to be at the gate to open it when I returned, and drove away. It was not until it was too late to turn back that I found the reins were sticky with grafting wax where William had held them, and that it had melted with the warmth of my hands and ruined my new gloves. It was while I was trying to scrape the wax off with my pocket knife that Peter Waydean stopped me to ask if I had seen a pig of his that had been missing since the day before. It was the first time I had seen him since our quarrel, so I answered briefly in the negative and drove on, but I noticed that he looked after me with surly suspicion, as if he thought I had it concealed under the seat.

Now when I returned half an hour later I was engrossed in conversation with Mr. Fairman, and I had forgotten all about Peter's quest. The horse was trotting along at a creditable pace; Mr. Fairman sat upright beside me in starched and immaculate apparel, trying to appear unconcerned about his approaching fate; I, flicking the animal in the most artfully casual manner to keep him going, had on my best company manners. Perhaps this phrase may suggest effort, constraint, artificiality, but I have been told by Marion that no one could possibly be more charming in manner than I, when I choose to be agreeable, but that when I—but there, I like to take the sweet without the bitter, and the rest is quite irrelevant. I was suave, genial, sympathetic; Mr. Fairman, in that blissfully exalted mood so natural to the occasion, had just drawn my attention to the idyllic beauty of Nature's autumn garb, when suddenly up from the dry ditch at the roadside stumbled Peter Waydean, a dishevelled, disreputable blot upon the scene. Frantically waving his arms, he shouted an invitation to me to stop and give him a chance to do me up. I had an idea that he called me a pig, but we were bowling along at such a rate that I couldn't be sure of his words, though there could be no doubt of his general intentions. For various reasons I did not attempt to stop, and my attention was immediately distracted from him by the sight of Marion's old sun-bonnet bobbing up and down in the ditch some distance ahead. If it had been hanging on a tree or lying on the roadside, I would have been quite surprised, but to see it travel along with unvarying speed and apparent dogged intention in a straight line along the inner side of the ditch seemed very like a miracle. That it could do so without legs was inconceivable; that legs could belong to it was marvellous, but if so, how many, what size and shape? I whipped up the horse, with a passing glance at Mr. Fairman. His eyes were riveted on the bonnet with eager wonderment; he had plainly forgotten for the moment that he was on his way to his wedding. As we neared the lower level of the road we were slightly ahead, and I checked the speed of the horse at the foot of a slope where the ditch ended; just in time, for like a dissolving view there dashed across the road directly in front of us the most grotesque object in the way of a quadruped that could be imagined. Its head was hidden in the sun-bonnet; the short fore-feet were completely encased in Paul's worn-out rubber boots; the body, instead of being hairy, was feathered like that of a Plymouth Rock hen; around the hind legs flapped a tiny pair of blue trousers—only a curly little tail remained to show it was a pig.

It came; it vanished. At the same instant Joe Wrigley's horse stood up very straight on his hind legs and then prepared to sit down on our laps. Without a word, Mr. Fairman leaned sideways and tried to climb head first over the wheel. I had just time to rescue him by seizing his coat-tails with one hand while I lashed the horse with the whip. The effect of that blow was electrical, for with a bound the animal sprang forward at a pace that first astonished, and then alarmed me. We passed the Waydean gate at racing speed, and in a fleeting glimpse of William as he stood there I saw a broad grin merge into open-mouthed horror, and I had the grim satisfaction of knowing that the enjoyment of his handiwork was swallowed up in remorse. In vain I tugged at the reins; the horse had the bit between his teeth, and the only effect was to slacken the traces and put the strain of drawing the vehicle on my arms. Perhaps if I had been alone I would have felt afraid and have resigned myself to disaster, but I was filled with a fierce resolve to save Mr. Fairman and see him safely married, as arranged.

He sat bolt upright now, his face pale and drawn as he gripped the seat with both hands. I had no breath to waste, so I remained silent until he said, in feeble gasps: "I think—perhaps—I'd better—get out."

It was then that my mind reached an altitude of far-seeing clear-sighted wisdom that, under the perilous circumstances, was akin to inspiration. Although ordinary men similarly placed would have reviewed their past misdeeds, or have looked forward with selfish misgiving to approaching dissolution, I did not think of my own danger; my mind was fully occupied with the problem of how to save my companion for his marriage at eleven o'clock. In case this mental attitude may seem heroic, I wish to say frankly that it didn't seem so to me; if it should be supposed that the impulse was a noble one, let me say that I had no intention of acting nobly; I also bitterly repel Marion's insinuation that it was an ignoble one. The fact is, it did not occur to me that I should analyze my motive, but if I had known how I would be catechized later I would have done so, and thus have avoided trouble.

As he spoke, Mr. Fairman gazed with longing eyes at the ground that seemed so invitingly near, with only the upper half of a rapidly revolving wheel to bar his descent. I knew that if I left him to himself he would take that fatal jump, yet I could not have moved a finger to stop him, for I dared not relax my hold on the reins. I must overcome with calm and decisive reasoning the alluring idea that had taken possession of him.

"Mr. Fairman," I said, with quiet authority, "there is—no cause—for alarm." He looked beseechingly at me, and I felt encouraged. "If you—jumped—" I continued jerkily, my words punctuated by the jolting of the vehicle, "you would either—be killed—" he shuddered—"or mangled." He stared at me with dumb appeal. "If the buggy were—in front—of a runaway horse—we'd have to jump, but since—we're behind—our best plan is to remain—seated—as long as—possible." A faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. "We're absolutely safe—" I urged, "on the seat—but danger begins when we—leave it."

Mr. Fairman gulped. "I see," he said; "you've got a head. Don't—let me—jump."

I needed all the head I had, for while the road had been clear so far, I descried a load of hay on the narrow bridge that stretched over the little river in front of us. There was no chance of passing to one side, and I wondered whether the horse would try to plunge through the load or jump over the railing of the bridge. He did neither, for I saw just in time that a track led down to the river, where farmers drove through when the water was low. Pulling with all my strength on one rein, I managed to turn the horse off the main road and we headed straight for the river. A shout of horror arose from my companion, and I had to drop the reins and clasp him in my arms to keep him from jumping out. There was a mighty splash, a sudden shock that almost flung us over the dashboard, and then Joe Wrigley's horse walked,—yes walked, calmly and sedately to the opposite shore. We were safe and dry-shod, but alas!—stranded in mid-stream. The horse had the shafts; we had the buggy. I looked at my watch; time, twenty-five minutes to eleven. We were a mile beyond Waydean, but it was possible to walk there in twenty minutes, if we could get to dry land. No one was in sight along the road, and the load of hay had lumbered on, the driver happily unconscious of how he had been saved from sudden disaster. Mr. Fairman, though still pale and agitated, had recovered enough to remember his appointment, and was dismayed at our situation. I had to give up, regretfully, for want of time, a fascinating plan of taking off the buggy-top to float shorewards in; a glance at his gleaming boots and irreproachable trousers caused me to scout the thought of his wading; there was but one course open to me. With many apologies I removed my lower garments; with more apologies I begged Mr. Fairman to do me the favor of carrying them, and stepped into the water. Then I showed him how to gather the skirts of his coat under his arms, get on my back and hold his legs straight out to keep them from touching the water. He politely protested; I insisted; he yielded. I am almost certain I heard him chuckle on the journey; I knew he vibrated in a suspicious manner; but when I set him down on shore he was quite solemn in thanking me, and his eyes were moist with emotion as he watched me dry myself with the buggy-duster and get into my clothes.

In my young days I often wished I could have an opportunity to save a human life; indeed, I have always held myself in readiness to plunge into any depth of water up to four feet if occasion should arise, and it is all the more remarkable that I really didn't think of having saved Mr. Fairman's life until he mentioned it. But when I looked back I saw that I had saved him at least four times in a quarter of an hour. First, by not abandoning my post when the horse tried to sit down in the buggy; second, by overcoming his impulse to jump out by my cold dispassionate logic; third, by holding him in the seat when we approached the river; fourth, by rescuing him from the shipwrecked buggy in perfect condition for his wedding.

When we met William Wedder hurrying along the road in search of us, his anxious and crestfallen air showing how much he regretted having been the cause of the accident, I did not stop to reproach him but sent him on to bring the horse and buggy to Waydean. Fortunately, Aunt Sophy and Marion, knowing nothing of our adventure, had been spared much anxiety, and it was not until after the brief marriage ceremony that Mr. Fairman related how, but for my heroic conduct, Aunt Sophy would not now be Mrs. Fairman. I must say he did me a little more than justice, and I did my best to faintly depreciate my heroism. I found Aunt Sophy's warm-hearted and impulsive demonstration most embarrassing, but it was a peculiar expression of scepticism on Marion's face that made me wish I had not been accused of acting heroically.

It was not until the Fairmans had departed and the flutter of Aunt Sophy's handkerchief from the car-window was no longer visible that Marion had a chance to speak to me alone; then she lost no time.

"Now," she said, turning to me with an impatient little tap of her foot, "I want to know the truth about that horse. Didn't you only pretend he ran away?"

"Pretend!" I exclaimed, with rightful indignation, the muscles of my arms still tingling with the strain.

"Yes," she insisted, with the resolute look that I knew only too well; a look meaning that no matter what the evidence I would be adjudged guilty; naturally, I flushed under her gaze. "I knew from your manner that you had done something you were ashamed of. Did you do it for one of those insane practical jokes, or because you wanted to convince Mr. Fairman that you are the paragon that Aunt Sophy thinks you?"

My irritation vanished; being innocent, I could forgive my wife's suspicion. "The fact is, Marion," I explained, with complete candor, "that brute of Joe Wrigley's had the bit between his teeth and I couldn't stop him."

She laughed scornfully. "He had the bit between his teeth! Just what you told poor Mr. Fairman. May I ask where you would have liked his bit to be? Between his eyes or his ears, perhaps. If you had a bit in your mouth wouldn't it have to be between your teeth?"

I knew her argument was defective, but I got too flustered to think where the weakness lay, for I felt the matter was getting serious. It is one thing to have the satisfaction of showing your wife that she has made a blunder; it is another to confirm her suspicions by your denial. In the end she did appear to believe that the horse ran away and that I really had tried, with some small measure of success, to save Mr. Fairman's life, but that didn't end the matter. Marion has unusual psychological insight. Not only can she unearth thoughts and motives that I am conscious of having, but she can go deeper still, delving into unexplored regions of sub-consciousness to find the thoughts and motives that I am not aware of having.

"How strange!" she mused. "You had time to think of so much in those few minutes. Did I understand you to say that your one idea was to save Mr. Fairman?"

"Well, that was the dominant one. The other thoughts that flashed through my mind were all dependent on it, as the tones of a musical scale are related to the tonic."

Not once in years do I think of so apt an illustration within five minutes of the time I need it, and I was so wrapped up in conceit of my remark that I walked, open-eyed but unseeing, into the most transparent pitfall. Knowing, in my innocence, that I had nothing to conceal, I forgot for the time that I must be on my guard against Marion's digging up something that wasn't there.

"And you never considered," she asked, "how dreadful it would be for Paul and me if anything happened to you?"

"It never entered my mind," I answered confidently, "but I can tell you I was afraid the old gentleman would be killed or mangled before he was married—then where would Aunt Sophy have been?"

"Where would Aunt Sophy have been?"

"Don't you see," I explained, with a confidential lowering of my voice, "that if he had been killed before the ceremony she would have been left out in the cold; whereas, afterwards it wouldn't matter—ah—so much."

"Wouldn't matter—so——"

"In a pecuniary sense," I interjected nervously. "I know she'd be heartbroken and all that, but as a widow—I mean, as his widow—she'd be wealthy, and—and—she'd get over——"

By Marion's stony glare I knew I had struck quicksand; I felt myself sinking and made one despairing effort to recover my footing. "Of course, I made up my mind that if I didn't pull him through safely, I'd give back my five thousand to Aunt Sophy, but—Good Heavens! Marion—what's the matter?"

It has been my lot to arouse anger, sorrow, despair, scorn, and various other sentiments consecutively, but never before had I seen them expressed in one composite glance.

"So that was your motive," she said, with stinging, withering emphasis. "You clutched Mr. Fairman as a miser might clutch his hoard if his house took fire. It wasn't to save his life; it wasn't for Aunt Sophy's sake; he was merely a money sack. Henry, if you hadn't confessed it yourself I wouldn't have believed you were such a mercenary wretch. No wonder you looked ashamed."

We had just reached the house, and I had no chance to clear my character before Marion ran upstairs and locked herself in her room, so I thought it politic to leave her in silence for a while. I was bristling with indignation, for while I hadn't pretended that my conduct was praiseworthy, I knew that I had not been cold-blooded and calculating enough to try to save Mr. Fairman from the motive she had suggested. Indeed, I saw that the explanation that I had formulated in response to Marion's insistent questions had no foundation in fact, except possibly a fragmentary impression that may have flashed across my mind for an instant during our imminent peril, yet I had been thick-headed enough to make it appear that I had been influenced by these considerations instead of confessing that I had invented them as an afterthought. I knew I should be able to make Marion see the matter in this light when she had been sufficiently long in seclusion; in the meantime, I went around to the rear of the house to find William Wedder and to settle my score with him.

I met him looking for me, dressed up in his best clothes and carrying his red bundle and stick.

"William," I said, in my most austere manner, "I haven't had a chance to tell you what I think of your con——"

"No, sir," he broke in, "and I'm not calculatin' to give you a chance. I'm off."

"You're—off!" I ejaculated, my anger suddenly displaced by dismay. "What—what's the matter?"

"Well, sir," answered William, his face broadening to a grin, "there's several reasons why I'd better be off. One is, I'd rather go than be sacked; then, old Waydean, he's took the notion that I dressed up his pig, and Joe Wrigley says he's gone to swear out a summons."

His manner was so coy, so engaging, so innocently virtuous and forbearing, that I could not refrain from an encouraging smile; somehow I seemed to know exactly how he felt—perhaps I, too, in some previous state of existence, had found it expedient to appear to know less than I did know.

"What became of the pig, William?" I asked, in a tone that conveyed, I fear, more sympathy than reproof.

"After you drove off so fast," he replied, "it turned onto the Stone Road, with old Waydean close behind, and that was the last I seen of them, but Joe Wrigley says they met a funeral near the Stone Road Cemetery, and there was a regular circus; after it was over I seen people drivin' past here lookin' as if they'd been at a Punch and Judy show."

I smiled appreciatively, feeling a softening toward William in view of the entertainment he had provided, but I saw it would be wiser for him to leave than to wait for Peter's revenge. There was one more point that puzzled me.

"How did you fasten those boots on the pig?" I asked.

There was a momentary triumphant gleam in his eyes, then they opened wide with innocent frankness as he spoke. "Joe Wrigley says there was a wad of graftin' wax in each one, and the longer they were on the tighter they'd stick. Joe says——"

"William," I interrupted, "why do you keep saying that Joe Wrigley says this and Joe Wrigley says that, when you——"

One eyelid slowly curtained an eye. "You see, Mr. Carton," he said, in a half-whisper, "if you don't know nothin' but what Joe says, you don't know enough for evidence, nor too much for your own good, and if that old sinner makes law trouble you can't swear to anythin' but hearsay. Joe says it's like a sort of judgment on him, for it'll take as long to get the feathers and wax off that pig as it'll take new feathers to grow on them chickens. He says there ain't but three ways of gettin' that kind of wax off: bilin' in kerosene, freezin' in a ice-cream freezer, or leavin' it to nature and the habits of pigs."

"Well, William," I said regretfully, "I suppose you had better go, but I'll have to get another man to do the work, for I'll have the farm on my hands in a few days. Peter has signed the agreement to sell."

"Jee—rus'lem!" he exclaimed. "It'll be a bigger circus than I counted on when——"

"When what?" I asked, as he suddenly checked himself.

"I was thinkin' about the new well up at the barn," he replied, with sudden gravity. "I haven't got down to water yet, but it ain't far off, and Joe Wrigley says he'll come over to-morrow and finish it for you. Well, I must be goin'—good-by for the present. Mebbe I'll come back when this blows over."

"Where are you going to?" I called after him, as he hurried off.

His legs moved faster, as if he feared pursuit, but there was no response until he reached the gate, then he turned and shouted: "To see—Uncle—Benny!"

It is painfully humiliating to stand before a locked door and try to convince a silent person inside that you have high ideals, noble impulses, virtuous aspirations and an unvarying regard for the truth; it is yet more painful if you are the victim of a train of circumstantial evidence that has biassed the mind of the listener; you are at a further disadvantage if that person is the one who knows your failings better than you do yourself, but there is yet hope if, with all your faults, she loves you still.

I pleaded and reasoned with Marion in a high, unnatural and despairingly mellifluous voice; without avail. Then it occurred to me that I was on the wrong tack, and in a tone of hoarse despair I said I was a brute. This had been effective before, and I listened breathlessly; there was a faint monosyllabic response, but whether of assent or dissent I could not determine. With added anguish I declared that I was and that she needn't say I wasn't; that it would be better for her if I were dead. There was a whole sentence in reply, the gist of it being that she hadn't said I wasn't. This was encouraging, so I sought to create a diversion by telling her that William had gone; this item was coldly received. Then, like an inspiration, came the thought that I had still to tell her how we had been bidding against each other.

"Marion," I called out excitedly, "I know the man who tried to buy the place."

"Who is he?"

"Open the door, and I'll tell you."

"No; I can hear."

"He's a perfect brute." I moved away with a heavy tread. It was an excellent move; the door opened and Marion ran after me.

"What's his name?" she demanded.

"He's a man," I replied, with unreproving, sad forgiveness, "who thought he would try to please his wife by making her a present of the place."

"Good gracious! Was it that wretched Griggs?"

"No,—his name is—Henry Carton."

Now I had expected the announcement to create a sensation, but I was totally unprepared for the effect it produced. Instead of being appalled to learn that she had thrown away sixteen hundred dollars unnecessarily, she forgave me with every appearance of being delighted to hear the news. An interval followed, during which I didn't care particularly how this blissful state of affairs had come to pass, but I gathered by degrees that it was because I had quite innocently proved that I was not a mercenary wretch and that I could by no possibility have saved Mr. Fairman's life from any sordid motive. There are probably few men more deserving of praise, but I shall not repeat Marion's expressions of affection and respect, in case they should appear extravagant. I bore her appreciation with my usual modesty, and when she wondered how she could have behaved so, I said it wasn't any wonder at all, and that I was almost sure I wasn't as good as she said. She declared indignantly that I was far better, and when I tried to add that I had acted like a brute she put her hand over my mouth and threatened to get angry again if I used that word about myself, saying that I had acted like an angel, and how could I ever forgive her? I assured her that there was nothing to forgive, but if there was I forgave her freely, and I did so with such fervor and unselfishness that she almost melted into tears again. Then with the greatest delicacy I suggested that I was grieved that she had been obliged to pay so much more for the farm than if I hadn't been so stupid, but she only said indifferently, "Bother the money—I've got you!"

Still, I grudged that sixteen hundred dollars, and I thought she ought to show more concern, but I dreaded a return of her suspicion that I was mercenary, so I bothered the money also and remarked that I had her. Then we both made the happy discovery that we had Paul, and Marion reminded me that I had the farm and enough money to stock it, yet in spite of all these blessings it rankled in my mind that when the papers were signed Peter Waydean would have that sixteen hundred dollars above the worth of the farm.