In the afternoon I went to town with the old man, to attend upon the transfer of the property, and I slept in the wagon, conscious of Guinea when the road was rough, and sweetly dreaming of her when there was no jolt to disturb my slumber. It was long after midnight when we returned. I was resolved to go early to bed, for Guinea and her mother were sadly engaged packing a box with the bric-a-brac upon which time and association had placed the seal of endearment.

"Now, I wonder what has become of that old lace curtain," said Mrs. Jucklin. "I have looked everywhere and can't find it, and I know it was in the chest up stairs."

The old man began to scratch his head.

"I don't know who could have taken it," Mrs. Jucklin went on. "It couldn't have walked off, I'm sure. Limuel?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"Do you know what has become of that old curtain?"

"What, that ragged old thing that wan't worth nothin'?"

"Worth nothin'! Why, it belonged to my grandmother."

"I never heard of that before.""Oh, yes, you have, and what's the use of talkin' that way? You've known it all the time."

"News to me," said the old man.

"It's not news to you, anything of the sort; but the question is, do you know what has become of it?"

"Susan, in this here life many things happen, things that we wish hadn't happened. I am not sorry that they fit to a finish, for that had to be; but I am sorry that I wrapped 'em in that curtain when I buried 'em."

"Gracious alive, what has possessed the man! Oh, you do distress me so. How could you do such a thing, Limuel? I do believe you have gone daft. But you go right out there now and dig up them good-for-nothin' chickens and bring me that curtain. Go right on this minit."

"What, Susan, and rob the dead and the brave? You wouldn't have me do that."

"Go on, I tell you, or I'll go myself, and throw the fetchtaked things over to the hogs. The idee of wrappin' up them cruel, good-for-nothin' things in a curtain like that. Oh, I never was so provoked in my life."

The old man got up and stretched himself. "Bill," said he, "I am sometimes forced to believe that the women folks are lackin' in human sympathy. Ma'm, I'll fetch your curtain, but I've got to have somethin' to wrap around the dead and the brave."

"Don't you take that apron. Why, if he wouldn't take the best apron I've got, right out from under my very eyes. And you can't have that stand cover, either.""Well, but, by jings, what can I have? Am I a traveler that has jest stopped here to stay all night? There's no use in talkin'; I'm goin' to have 'em put away decent. Take me for a barbarian?"

He went out, and just as I was going up to bed I met him in the passage way, with a roll of white stuff in his bare arms, and as he stepped into the room I heard his wife exclaim: "Mercy on me, if he hasn't taken his best shirt. And what he is goin' to do for somethin' to wear the Lord only knows."

I heard Guinea laughing, and then I heard the old man say that what a man happened to wear would make but little difference with the Lord.

I was so worn that my sleep that night was dreamless, but when early at morning they called me to breakfast I knew that during the hours of that deep oblivion I had been vaguely conscious of a dim and shadowy happiness; and a vivid truth came upon me with the first glimpse of sunlight.

The old man was waiting at the foot of the stairs. "Bill, we are goin' over to the station right after we eat a bite," he said. "We can't take but a few things, and we'll leave the most of our trumpery till we git settled somewhere. Take care of that horse you've been ridin'—he don't belong to us; was left here by a man some time ago, feller that had to go away off somewhere to see his folks. So, you jest keep him till he's called for; and I've left you plenty of corn out there to feed him on. You can study your books here about as well as you can in town, and I wish you'd sorter look after the things. Parker will drive us over to the station."

"And am I to go also?" I asked.

"No, I believe not. It's Guinea's arrangement and not mine. Let her have her own way. All women have got their whims, the whole kit an' b'ilin' of 'em, and you might as well reason with a weather cock. Wait a minit before we go in. As soon as we git half way settled Guinea will write to you. I have no idee where I'm goin', but it will be away off somewhere. It makes me shudder every time I meet a man that I know, and I'd bet a horse that if I was to meet a cross-eyed feller I'd fight him. If Alf gits clear he can come to us. And you—I'm sorry you have decided to go in with Conkwright, for I wanted you to come with Alf."

"I will come. Nothing shall stand in the way. Mr. Jucklin, have you noticed——"

"Yes, I've noticed everything. And it's all right. And Susan has noticed everything and it's all right with her. There never was a prouder human than Guinea, sir; the old General's pride is rain water compared to her'n. And she's got an idee in her head—I don't exactly understand it, but she's got it there and we'll have to let her keep it till she wants to throw it aside. I was over to the General's before sun up this mornin'. He swore that he wouldn't take the money, but I left it under a brick-bat on the gate post and come away. Well, everything is settled, and all I can say now is, God bless you."

We were silent at breakfast, and we dared not look at one another. A wagon came rattling through the gate, and Parker shouted that he was ready. No one had said a word, but the old man struck the table with his fist and exclaimed: "I insist on everybody showin' common sense. I don't want anybody to speak to me. I'll fight in a minit. Git in that wagon without a word. Hush, now."

I wanted to lead Guinea to the wagon, to feel again her dependence upon me, but she pretended to be looking away when I attempted to take her hand, and so she walked on alone; but I helped her into the vehicle, and I kissed her hand when she took hold of the seat. She gave me a quick look and a smile; and the wagon rolled away. I stood on the log step, watching it, and as it was slowly sinking beyond the hill I saw the flutter of a handkerchief.

I went up to my room and sat down, sad that I had seen her going away from me, yet happy to know that she had left her heart in my keeping. But the foolishness of this separation struck me with a force that had been lacking until now, and for a time I felt toward the old man a hardness that not even a keen appreciation of his kindness and his drollery could soften. Gradually, however, the truth came to me that Alf had drawn the plan, and with my arms stretched out toward the hill-top that had slowly arisen between me and the fluttering handkerchief I foolishly apologized to the old man. I did more foolish things than that; I improvised a hymn and sang it to Guinea—a chant that, no doubt, would have been immeasurably funny to the cold-hearted and the sane, but it brought the tears to my eyes and rendered the rafters just above my head a work of lace, far away. And at these devotions I might have remained for hours had not a sharp footfall smote upon my ear. I hastened down stairs, and at the entrance of the passage stood Chyd Lundsford, looking about, slowly lashing his leg with a switch.

"Helloa! Where are all the folks?"

"They are gone, sir," I answered, stiffly bowing to him.

"Gone? I don't know that I quite catch your meaning."

"If it be illusive you have made it so. I said that they were gone, which means, of course, that they are not here."

"I understand that all right enough, but do you mean that they are not in at present or that they have really left home?"

"They have no home, sir."

He gave himself a sharp cut with the switch. "It can't have been so very long since they left, for the old man was over to see father this morning. Which way did they go? I may overtake them."

"That would be greatly against their wish, sir."

"I am not asking for an opinion. I want to know which way they went."

"I am not at liberty to tell you that. They have gone out into a world that is as strange to them as America was to Columbus."

"Rot. There isn't a smarter woman anywhere than Guinea. She has read everything and she knows the world as well as I do. But why are you not privileged to tell me which way they went? I have something to say that concerns them closely. Did they go toward town?"

"Do you suppose that they would go away without first seeing their son?"

"Then you mean that they went to town. Why the devil can't you speak out? Why should you stand as a stumbling block?"

"Why should I stand as a sign post?"

"Now here, you needn't show your selfishness in this matter. She wouldn't wipe her feet on you."

"No, but she would wipe them on you."

"What!" He took a step forward, but he stepped back again and stood there, lashing himself with the switch. "My father tells me that you are a gentleman," he said.

"And you may safely accept your father's opinion of me," I answered.

"But you are not striving, sir, to make that opinion good."

"A good opinion needs no bolstering up."

"This bantering is all nonsense. I've got nothing against you; I have simply asked you a civil question."

"And I hope to be as civil as you are, but out of regard for the feelings of those old people and their daughter I cannot tell you which way they went. You couldn't overtake them, any way."

"But I can try."

"Yes, you could have tried yesterday and the day before, and a week ago, when they needed your sympathy."

He dropped his switch, but he caught it up again, and his face was red. "I might say, sir, that what I have done and that which I have failed to do is no business of yours, but I feel that there is a measure of justice in what you say, and I acknowledge that I have been wrong. That is why I am here now—to set myself right."

"In matters of business we may correct an error, Mr. Lundsford; we may rub out one figure and put down another, but a mark made upon the heart is likely to remain there."

"I will not attempt to bandy sentimentalities with you, sir. I am a practical man, a scientist, if you wish; and I came here to tell that girl that my breaking off the engagement—you must know all about it—was wrong. I told my father to come, for just at that time I didn't feel that as a man who looks forward to something a little more than a name I could afford to marry her. But I was wrong; any living man could afford to marry her. I was wrong, and that ought to settle it."

"And I think, sir, that it does settle it as far as you are concerned."

"Do you mean that she won't marry me? Oh, yes, she will, not out of any foolish love, but because she would be proud of my success. Well, I may not overtake her, but I will write to her. Yes, that will do as well. She will want to know how things are getting along here, and will write to you, and when she does I wish you would show me her letter. What are you laughing at? Haven't you got any sense at all?"

"I hope so, but I am not so much of a scientist that I am a fool."

"No, but you are so much of a fool that you are not a scientist, by a d——d sight."

He had me there, and it was his time to laugh, and he did. He was so tickled that he roared, walking up and down the passage; and he was so pleased that he held out his hand to shake upon the merit of his joke. I was not disposed to be surly and I shook hands with him, and he clapped me on the shoulder, still laughing, and declared that it was a piece of wit worthy of the dissecting-room, and that he would jolt his fellows with it.

"I am glad you are so much pleased," I remarked.

"Why, don't you think it's good, eh? Of course, you do. Well, it's better to part laughing, anyway."

"You are not too much of a scientist to be a philosopher," I said. And I expected him to continue his line of deduction and to say that I was too much of a philosopher to be a scientist, but he did not; he sobered and gravely remarked:

"Yes, I am devilish sorry that this thing came about, and I hope that Guinea will not take a romantic view of it. I guess they'll be back after a while, if Alf is cleared, and from what I hear I suppose he will be."

"May I ask how your sister is?"

"Certainly. She's all right; doesn't eat much, but her pulse is normal—little excited, but hardly noticeable. Loves that fellow, doesn't she? Strong, good-looking boy, but not very practical. Hope he'll come out all right. Ah, I was going to say something, but it has escaped me. Oh, yes, you are in love with Guinea. Be frank, now."

"Yes, I worship her."

"Hardly the word, but it will do, on an impulse. I think a good deal of her myself. I said just now that she wouldn't wipe her feet on you, and I beg your pardon. She may wipe them on you. You are going to stay here, eh? Well, come over to the house. No reason why there should be any ill-will between us. Good-day."

I sat down on the step and watched him until he had ridden out of sight, and I was pleased that he went toward his home, not that I was afraid of a renewal of the engagement; I knew that it was forever set aside. But I felt that his overtaking the wagon would bring an additional trouble to the father and the mother; indeed, I was afraid that the old man might kill him. Strange fellow Chyd was, and I liked him as an oddity, as something wholly different from myself or from any impulsive being. He was not cruel—he simply had no heart.