More than a month passed and they were still working on the school-house. The simple plan had been drawn with but a few strokes of a pencil, the sills had been placed without delay, but they had to plane the boards by hand and that had taken time. Alf and I had again sat at the old General's table, had listened to his words so rounded out with kindliness, and upon returning to the porch had heard him storm at something that had gone amiss. Millie showed her dimples and her pretty teeth, smiling at Alf and at me, too, but I saw no evidence that she loved him. Indeed, she had been so much petted that I thought she must be a flirt, and yet she said nothing to give me that impression. Guinea was just the same, good-humored, rarely serious. One Sunday I went to church with her, walked, though the distance was two miles; stood near the cave wherein the British soldiers had hidden themselves, and talked of everything save love. I cannot say that I had a sacred respect for her feelings; I think that I should have liked to torture her, but something closed my heart against an utterance of its heavy fullness.

One Saturday afternoon I was told that the school-house would be ready on the following Monday. I had been out many times to view the work, but I decided to go again to see that everything was complete. I expected that Alf would go with me, for the corn was laid by, but I could not find him. His mother told me that he had put on his Sunday clothes and that she had seen him going down the road. And so I went alone. The house was done, and what a change from the pile of old logs! The walls were painted white and the blinds were green. The bushes were cleared off, and the scorched trees had been cut down, split up and hauled away. I have never seen a neater picture, and in it I saw not only the progress of the people, but the respect in which they held me.

I had come out of the woods on my way home and was on a high piece of grazing land not far from the house when I saw a man ride up to the yard fence, dismount, tie his horse and go into the house. This within itself was nothing, for I had seen many of the neighbors come and go, but a sudden chill seized upon me now, and there I shook, though the heat of June lay upon the land; and it was some time before I could go forward, stumbling, quaking, with my eyes fixed upon the horse tied at the fence. In the yard behind the house I came upon Mrs. Jucklin, gathering up white garments that had been spread to dry upon the althea bushes. "Chyd Lundsford has come," she said, and I replied: "Yes, I know it."

I stepped upon the passage and passed the sitting-room door without looking in; I sat down in a rocking chair that had been placed near the stair-way, sat there and listened to a girl's laugh and the low mumble of a man's voice. "Let us go out where it's cooler," I heard Guinea say, and I got up with my head in a whirl.

"Mr. Hawes, this is Mr. Lundsford."

"Glad to meet you, sir," I said, taking hold of something—his hand, I suppose. I was urged to sit down again; Guinea said that she would bring two more chairs, and when I had dropped back between the arms of the rocker I looked at the man standing there, and a sort of glad disappointment cleared my vision and placed him before me in a strong light. He was short, almost fat, and in his thin, whitish hair there was a hint at coming baldness. The close attention that he had been compelled to give practical things, the sawing of bones, the tracing of nerves, the undoing of man's machinery, had given him the cynical look of a hard materialist. But when he stepped back to take the chair which Guinea had brought I saw that he moved easily, that he was cool and knew well how to handle himself. And this drove away the meager joy of my glad disappointment.

"I hear you are going to take up school Monday," he said. "Rather late to begin school just now, I should think."

"Under ordinary circumstances it would be regarded as late in the season," I answered, "but we have been so interrupted that we now decide to have no vacation."

"I guess you are right. Had a pretty close shave with those fellows, didn't you? Ought to have killed them right there. I've seen Scott. Thought he was a pretty bright fellow, naturally; rather witty. Would make a first-rate subject on the slab."

"Because you thought him witty, sir?" I asked.

"Of course not; but because he is a good specimen—big fellow." He looked at me and I thought that he was measuring my chest. "Yes," he continued, "ought to have killed them. Man's got to take care of himself, you know, and he can't make it his business to show mercy. Most all the virtues now are back-woods qualities."

"I don't believe that," Guinea spoke up. "Every day we read of the generosity of the world."

"Oh," he said, passing his short fingers through his thin hair, "you read about it, and people who want to shine as generous creatures take particular pains that you shall read about it. You've a great deal to learn, my dear little woman."

"And perhaps there is a great deal that she doesn't care to learn," I ventured to suggest; and I quickly looked at her to see whether I had made another mistake. I had not, her quiet smile told me, and I felt bold enough to have thrown him over the fence.

"What we wish to know and what we ought to know are two different matters," he said. "But I hold that we ought to know the truth, no difference what the truth may be. I want facts; I don't want paint. I don't want to believe that the gilt on the dome goes all the way through.""But," said I, "the gilt on the dome doesn't prove that the dome is rotten; it may be strong with seasoned wood and ribs of iron."

"Yes," he drawled, "that's all very good, very well put, but it means nothing. By the way, before we get into a discussion let me invite you over to our house to-night. Quite a number of young people will drop in. Not exactly the night, you know; but the old idea that white people shouldn't go out of a Saturday night, the night reserved for negroes, is all nonsense. So, I have asked them to come. Alf will come, I suppose, and so will our little spring branch nymph."

"I didn't suppose that you believed in nymphs, now that you have gone out and learned that everything is false," Guinea spoke up.

"I don't believe in painted ones," he replied, "but you are not painted."

"I shall be pleased to come," I remarked, and then I asked him how long he expected to remain at home.

"Oh, about a month, I should think. I am gradually getting along and I don't want to go to school all my life. I want to begin practice next year."

"In this neighborhood?" I asked, and he gave me a contemptuous look. "Well, not if I have any sense left," he answered. "I might ride around here a thousand years and not win anything of a name. Look at Dr. Etheredge, fine physician, but what has he done? No, I'm going to a city, north, I think."He stayed to supper and this angered me, for I had set my heart on walking to the General's house with Guinea. Alf had not returned and we wondered whither he could have gone. And when the time came to go, that impudent sprig of a doctor asked me if I would ride his horse around by the road, said that he wanted to walk across the meadows with Guinea. How I should have enjoyed knocking him on the head, but I thought that Guinea supplemented his request with a look, and I consented.

There were many horses tied at the General's fence, and there was laughter within, when I rode up, and I was reminded of the night when I had stood with my hot hand melting the frost on the fence. But I thought of what the men had said on the railway platform, of the woman whom I had seen on the train, and boldly I walked in. The General met me with a warm grasp, and was asking me if I had seen his son, when in walked the young fellow himself, with Guinea beside him. The parlor and the library, opening one into the other, were well filled with good-humored young folk, and among them were old people, none the less good-humored. I was surprised to find myself so much in demand, for every one asked for an introduction, but with bitterness I knew that it was because I had come near being burned up in an old house. They played games, but of this they soon tired; they sang and one of the ladies plucked a sparkling fandango, and then Chydister Lundsford was called upon for a speech. He was not at all embarrassed and he talked fairly well; and when he was done they called upon me. I got up with one hand resting on the piano, and stood there, nervous at first, but strangely steady later on. I told them that I could not make a speech, but that with their permission I would tell them a story, one of my own. They cried out that they would rather have a story than a speech, and I gave them a half humorous, half pathetic sketch, something that had long been running in my head and which I intended to write. What a strong confidence came upon me as I noted the effect of my words! I was drawing a picture and they were eager to see it; I was playing on a strange, rude instrument, and how they bent to catch every vibration. I was astonished at myself, thrilled with myself. And when the climax came, chairs were tipped over as if in a scramble, and a wild applause broke out. Every hand was stretched out toward me, every eye was bright with a tear. The old General grabbed me and, throwing back his great head, almost bellowed a compliment; and through it all I saw Guinea sweetly smiling. They urged me to give them another story, were almost frantic in their entreaty; they had heard the heart-beat of their own life and they must hear it again. I told another story, one over which I had fondly mused, and again the hands came out toward me, and again the General bellowed a compliment. I can scarcely recall anything else that passed that evening. Yes, I remember that as I was taking my leave, to walk across the meadows with Guinea and Chyd, Millie stood in front of me. Once or twice I thought that she had something that she would tell me, for her lips moved, but she said nothing except to bid me good-night.

And where was Alf all this time? No one had spoken his name; Millie had not asked me about him. I walked briskly in advance, half happy, but, of course, with my mind on Guinea, whose low voice reached my ears through the quiet that lay on the grass-land.

"Why don't you wait for us?" she cried. I turned about and waited, and as she came up, holding Chyd's arm, she said: "I hope your success to-night hasn't turned your head."

"And I hope that I don't deserve such a suspicion," I answered, not with bitterness, but with joy to think that she had felt my apparent indifference.

"Oh, I don't see anything to cause a spat," said Chyd, straining himself to take long steps. "Good stuff, of course, but nothing to turn a man's head—a mere bit of fancy paint. But you ought to write it. Good many people like nonsense. I mean something light, you know. Two-thirds of the human family make it their business to dodge the truth. But it is a good thing for a school-teacher to make himself felt in that way."

"Perhaps Mr. Hawes doesn't intend to be a teacher all his life," Guinea replied, speaking in kindliness, but with no interest, as to whether or not I was to remain a pedagogue.

"God forbid," I replied. And the young doctor gave me a sarcastic cough. "Man ought to do what he's best fitted for," said he. "Trouble is that a man generally thinks that he's fitted for something that he isn't—hates the thing that he can do best."

"Your knowledge of the practical fortifies you against any advance that I might make," I replied. "I don't pretend to be practical."

"Hum, I should think not," he rejoined. "Good deal of a dreamer, I take it. And you are in the right place. Everything dreams here, the farmers and even the cattle. Going to pull down the fence, eh? Guinea'll be over by the time you get it down. What did I tell you? Regular fawn, eh?"

We had passed out of the meadow. They waited in the road until I replaced the rails which I had let down. The road ran along the ravine and home was in sight. I looked across toward the smooth old rock and saw a dark object upon it. We went down into the ravine and as we were coming out, a voice cried: "Is that you, Bill?" And instantly Guinea answered for me. "Yes, Alf. And here's Chyd."

"How are you, Chyd?" he shouted, and then he added: "Bill, I want to see you a minute. Stay where you are and I'll come down."

I halted to wait for him. He stopped a moment to shake hands with Chyd, and then he hastened to me. "Old man, I've got something to tell you," he said. "Let's walk down this way—no, not over in the road, but up the hollow." He gripped my arm tightly, walked fast, then slowly and then stopped. "Let's sit down here, Bill." We seated ourselves on a rock. "You have been over to the General's, along with Chyd and Guinea, haven't you? Of course, you have—what's the use of asking that? Do you know what I did to-day? Not long after dinner I went over there determined to find out how I stood. I was brave until I got nearly to the house and then my courage failed. I stood by the fence in the blackberry briars and gazed at the house. After a while I saw her come out and start down the Ebeneezer road. And then I whipped round and met her. And as I stood beside the road, waiting for her to come up I noticed for the first time that the sun was nearly down. For hours I had been standing in the briars. I pretended not to see her; let on like I was hunting for a squirrel up in a tree, until she came up. Then I spoke to her and she started as if she was scared. She said that she was going over to Lum Smith's to tell the young people to come over at night, and I asked her if I might walk along with her. She said with a laugh that I might go part of the way, and then I knew that she was ashamed for any one to see her with me. This cut me to the red, but I walked along with her. I felt that I had nothing to say that would interest her, but I kept on talking, and once in a while she would look up at me and laugh. At last, and it was just as we came within sight of Smith's place, I asked her what she really thought of Dan Stuart. I knew that this was a fool's break, and if it hadn't been I don't suppose I would have made it. She looked up at me, but she didn't laugh this time. I begged her pardon for my rudeness, and she reminded me that I was only to come a part of the way with her. I then told her that I would wait for her to come back. She said that she might not come back that way. I replied that no matter which way she came back I would see her. She went on, laughing now, and I waited, but I didn't have to wait long before I saw her coming. As she came up I asked her if she was ready to grant my pardon and she wanted to know what about. We walked along together and she began to tell me about her brother, how smart he was and all that, and I said that I didn't think that he was as smart as you, Bill; I wanted to take credit for a friendship I had formed, you see? But a moment later I was sorry, for I was afraid that she might say something against you, but she didn't. She said that you were a smart man—a distinguished-looking man, and that she liked you ever so much. At first I was pleased, but a second afterward I was jealous of you, Bill. Did you ever see as blamed a fool as I am? But I didn't hate you, Bill. No, my heart was warm toward you even while she was praising you—even while I was jealous. I again asked her what she thought of Dan Stuart, and she looked up at me and wanted to know if I knew what he thought of her. I told her that everybody loved her, and that I didn't suppose he was mean enough not to love her. She said that she knew people who didn't love her, and I told her that if she would show them to me I would butt their heads together for being such idiots. We were now almost within sight of the General's home and I was not getting along very fast. I was determined to make a break. We were on a hill, where the trees were tall, almost over-lapping the road. To the right ran a path through the briars, a nearer way home. I asked her to wait and she stopped. The sun was down and it was now almost dark. And it was then that I told her that I loved her. I don't know how I acted or what I said, but I know that I was down in the dust at her feet. She stood there, pale and trembling, looking around as if she would call for help. I asked her to marry me, and she laughed, Bill—laughed at me and darted down the path. Then I went into the woods and roamed about I don't know where; and that is the reason I wasn't at the gathering to-night. I'm bruised and crippled, Bill—my heart is sore, but I want to tell you that when she's standing on the floor with that fellow Stuart, with the preacher in front of her, I'll be there, putting in my plea. I won't give up as long as there is a fighting chance left. Don't say a word about it. Forgive me for dragging you off down here. God knows you've got a deep trouble of your own. And I wish my word could settle it—I'd speak it, though it might hurt my chances at the General's. Well, let's go to the house."