IV

T was Sunday morning a week later. Springtown's principal church

stood in the edge of the village on the red-clay road leading up the

mountain-side, now in the delicate green dress of spring, touched here

and there by fragrant splotches of pink honeysuckle and white, dark-eyed

dog-wood blossoms. The building was a diminutive affair, with five

shuttered windows on either side, a pulpit at one end, and a door at

the other. A single aisle cut the rough benches into two parts, one

side being occupied by the men, and the other by the women. The only

exception to this rule was the bench reserved, as if by common consent,

for Captain Duncan, who always sat with his family, as did any male

guests who attended service with them.

The Rev. Jason Hillhouse was the regular pastor. He was under thirty

years of age, very tall, slight of build, and of nervous temperament.

He wore the conventional black frock-coat, high-cut waistcoat, black

necktie, and gray trousers. He was popular. He had applied himself

closely to the duties of his calling and was considered a man

of character and worth. While not a college graduate, he was yet

sufficiently well-read in the Bible and religious literature to

suit even the more progressive of mountain church-goers. He differed

radically from many of the young preachers who were living imitations of

that noted evangelist, the Rev. Tom P. Smith, “the whirlwind preacher,”

in that he was conservative in the selection of topics for discourse and

in his mild delivery.

To-day he was at his best. Few in the congregation suspected it, but, if

he distributed his glances evenly over the upturned faces, his thoughts

were focussed on only one personality--that of modest Cynthia Porter,

who, in a becoming gray gown, sat with her mother on the third bench

from the front. Mrs. Porter, a woman of fifty-five years of age, was

very plainly attired in a calico dress, to which she had added no

ornament of any kind. She wore a gingham poke-bonnet, the hood of which

hid her face even from the view of the minister. Her husband, old

Nathan Porter, sat directly across the aisle from her. He was one of

the roughest-looking men in the house. He had come without his coat, and

wore no collar or neck-tie, and for comfort, as the day was warm, he had

even thrown off the burden of his suspenders and they lay in careless

loops about his hips. He had a broad expanse of baldness, to the edge

of which hung a narrow fringe of white hair, and a healthful, pink

complexion, and mild, blue eyes.

When the sermon was over and the doxology sung, the preacher stepped

down into the congregation to take the numerous hands cordially extended

to him. While he was thus engaged old Mayhew came from the “amen corner,”

on the right, and nodded and smiled patronizingly.

“You did pretty well to-day, young man,” he said. “I like doctrinal

talks. There's no getting around good, sound doctrine, Hillhouse. We'd

have less lawlessness if we could keep our people filled plumb-full of

sound doctrine. But you don't look like you've been eating enough, my

boy. Come home with me and I'll give you a good dinner. I heard a fat

hen squeal early this morning, as my cook, old Aunt Nancy, jerked her

head off. It looks a pity to take life on a Sunday, but if that hen had

been allowed to live she might have broken a commandment by hunting for

worms on this day of rest. So the divine intention may be carried out,

after all. Come on with me.”

“I can't, Brother Mayhew, not to-day, thank you.” The young man flushed

as his glance struggled on to the Porters, who were waiting near the

door. “The fact is, I've already accepted an invitation.”

“From somebody with a girl in the family, I'll bet,” Mayhew laughed, as

he playfully thrust the crooked end of his walking-stick against the

preacher's side.

“I wish I knew why women are so dead-set on getting a preacher in the

family. It may be because they know they will be provided for, after

some fashion or other, by the church at large, in case of death or

accident.”

The preacher laughed as he moved on shaking hands and dispensing cheery

words of welcome right and left. Presently the way was clear and he

found himself near Cynthia and her mother.

“Sorry to keep you standing here,” he said, his color rising higher as

he took the hand of the girl and shook it.

“Oh, it doesn't matter at all, Brother Hillhouse,” the old woman assured

him. “I'll go on an' overtake Mr. Porter; you and Cynthia can stroll

home by the shadiest way. You needn't walk fast; you'll get hot if you

do. Cynthia, I won't need you before dinner. I've got everything ready,

with nothing to do but lay back the cloth and push the plates into their

places. I want Brother Hillhouse just to taste that pound-cake you made.

I'm a good hand at desserts myself, Brother Hillhouse, but she can beat

me any day in the week.”

“Oh, I know Miss Cynthia can cook,” said the minister. “At the picnic at

Cohutta Springs last week she took the prize on her fried chicken.”

“I told you all that mother fried that chicken,” said the girl,

indifferently. She had seen Nelson Floyd mounting his fine Kentucky

horse among the trees across the street, and had deliberately turned her

back towards him.

“Well, I believe I _did_ fix the chicken,” Mrs. Porter admitted, “but

she made the custards and the cake and icing, besides the poor girl

was having a lot of trouble with her dress. She washed and did up that

muslin twice--the iron spoiled it the first time. I declare I'd have

been out of heart, but she was cheerful all through it. There is Nathan

now. He never will go home by himself; he is afraid I'll lag behind and

he'll get a late dinner.”

“How are you to-day, Brother Porter?” Hillhouse asked as they came upon

the old man, under the trees, a little way from the church.

“Oh, I'm about as common,” was the drawling answer. “You may notice that

I limp a little in my left leg. Ever since I had white-swellin' I've had

trouble with that self-same leg. I wish you folks would jest stop an'

take a peep at it. It looks to me like the blood's quit circulatin' in

it. It went to sleep while you was a-talkin' this mornin'--now, I'll

swear I didn't mean that as a reflection.” He laughed dryly as he paused

at a fallen tree and put his foot upon it and started to roll up the leg

of his trousers, but his wife drew him on impatiently.

“I wonder what you'll do next!” she said, reprovingly. “This is no time

and place for that. What would the Duncans think if they were to drive

by while you were doing the like of that on a public road? Come on with

me, and let's leave the young folks to themselves.”

Grumblingly Porter obeyed. His wife walked briskly and made him keep

pace with her, and they were soon several yards ahead of the young

couple. Hillhouse was silent for several minutes, and his smooth-shaven

face was quite serious in expression.

“I'm afraid I'm going to bore you on that same old line, Miss Cynthia,”

he said, presently. “Really, I can't well help it. This morning I

fancied you listened attentively to what I was saying.”

“Oh, yes, I always do that,” the girl returned, with an almost

perceptible shudder of her shoulders.

“It helped me wonderfully, Miss Cynthia, and once a hope actually

flashed through me so strong that I lost my place. You may have seen

me turning the pages of the Bible. I was trying to think where I'd left

off. The hope was this: that some day if I keep on begging you, and

showing my deep respect and regard, you will not turn me away. Just for

one minute this morning it seemed to me that you had actually consented,

and--and the thought was too much for me.”

“Oh, don't say any more about it, Mr. Hillhouse,” Cynthia pleaded,

giving him a full look from her wonderful brown eyes. “I have already

said as much as I can on that subject.”

“But I've known many of the happiest marriages to finally result from

nothing but the sheer persistence of the man concerned,” the preacher

went on, ardently, “and when I think of _that_ I _live_, Miss Cynthia--I

live! And when I think of the chance of losing you it nearly drives me

crazy. I can't help feeling that way. You are simply all I care for on

earth. Do you remember when I first met you? It was at Hattie Mayfield's

party just after I got this appointment; we sat on the porch alone and

talked. I reckon it was merely your respect for my calling that made you

so attentive, but I went home that night out of my head with admiration.

Then I saw that Frank Miller was going with you everywhere, and that

people thought you were engaged, and, as I did not admire his moral

character, I was very miserable in secret. Then I saw that he stopped,

and I got it from a reliable source that you had turned him down because

you didn't want to marry such a man, and my hopes and admiration climbed

still higher. You had proved that you were the kind of woman for a

preacher's wife--the kind of woman I've always dreamed of having as my

companion in life.”

“I didn't love him, that was all,” Cynthia said, quietly. “It would

not have been fair to him or myself to have received his constant

attentions.”

“But now I am down in the dregs again, Miss Cynthia.” Hillhouse gave a

sigh. It was almost a groan.

She glanced at him once, and then lowered her eyes half fearfully to the

ground. And, getting his breath rapidly, the preacher bent more closely

over her shoulder, as if to catch some reply from her lips. She made

none.

“Yes, I'm in the dregs again--miserable, afraid, jealous! You know why,

Miss Cynthia. You know that any lover would be concerned to see the girl

upon whom he had based his every hope going often with Nelson Floyd, a

man about whom people say--”

“Stop!” the girl turned upon him suddenly and gazed into his eyes

steadily. “If you have anything to say against him, don't do it to me.

He's my friend, and I will not listen to anything against those I like.”

“I'm not going to criticise him.” Hillhouse bit his white, unsteady lip,

as he pinched it between his thumb and index finger. “A man's a fool

that will try to win a woman by running down his rival. The way to run a

man up in a woman's eye is to openly run him down. Men are strong enough

to bear such things, but women don't think so. They shelter them like

they do their babies. No, I wasn't going to run him down, but I am

afraid of him. When you go out driving with him, I--”

Again Cynthia turned upon him and looked at him steadily, her eyes

flashing. “Don't go too far; you might regret it,” she said. “It is an

insult to be spoken to as you are speaking to me.”

“Oh, don't, don't! You misunderstand me,” protested the bewildered

lover. “I--I am not afraid of--you understand, of course, I'm not afraid

you will not be able to--to take care of yourself, but he has so

many qualities that win and attract women that--Oh, I'm jealous, Miss

Cynthia, that's the whole thing in a nutshell. He has the reputation of

being a great favorite with all women, and now that he seems to admire

you more than any of the rest--” The girl raised her eyes from the

ground; a touch of color rose to her cheeks. “He doesn't admire me

more than the others,” she said, tentatively. “You are mistaken, Mr.

Hillhouse.”

He failed to note her rising color, the subtle eagerness oozing from her

compact self-control.

“No, I'm not blind,” he went on, blindly building up his rival's cause.

“He admires you extravagantly--he couldn't help it. You are beautiful,

you have vivacity, womanly strength, and a thousand other qualities that

are rare in this out-of-the-way place. Right here I want to tell you

something. I know you will laugh, for you don't seem to care for such

things, but you know Colonel Price is quite an expert on genealogical

matters. He's made a great study of it, and his chief hobby is that many

of these sturdy mountain people are the direct descendants of fine

old English families from younger sons, you know, who settled first in

Virginia and North Carolina, and then drifted into this part of Georgia.

He didn't know of my admiration for you, but one day, at the meeting of

the Confederate Veterans at Springtown, he saw you on the platform with

the other ladies, and he said: 'I'll tell you, Hill-house, right there

is a living proof of what I have always argued. That daughter of Nathan

Porter has a face that is as patrician as any woman of English royal

birth. I understand,' the colonel went on to say, 'that her mother was

a Radcliffe, which is one of the best and most historic of the Virginia

families, and Porter, as rough as he is, comes from good old English

stock.' Do you wonder, Cynthia, that I agree with him? There really

is good blood in you. Your grandmother is one of the most refined and

gentle old ladies I have ever met anywhere, and I have been about a good

deal.”

“I am not sure that Colonel Price is right,” the girl responded. “I've

heard something of that kind before. I think Colonel Price had an

article in one of the Atlanta papers about it, with a list of old family

names. My father knows little or nothing about his ancestry, but my

grandmother has always said her forefathers were wealthy people. She

remembers her grandmother as being a fine old lady who, poor as she was,

tried to make her and the other children wear their bonnets and gloves

in the sun to keep their complexions white. But I don't like to discuss

that sort of thing, Mr. Hillhouse. It won't do in America. I think we

are what we make _ourselves_, not what others have made of _themselves._

One is individuality, the other open imitation.”

The young man laughed. “That's all very fine,” he said. “When it

was your forefathers who made it possible for you to have the mental

capacity for the very opinion you have just expressed. At any rate,

there is a little comfort in your view, for if you were to pride

yourself on Price's theories, as many a woman would, you might look

higher than a poor preacher with such an untraceable name as mine. And

you know, ordinary as it is, you have simply got to wear it sooner or

later.”

“You must not mention that again,” Cynthia said, firmly. “I tell you,

I am not good enough for a minister's wife. There is a streak of

worldliness in me that I shall never overcome.”

“That cuts me like a knife,” said Hillhouse. “It hurts because it

reminds me of something I once heard Pole Baker say in a group at the

post-office. He said that women simply do not like what is known as a

'goody-goody' man. Sometimes as coarse a fellow as Pole hits the nail

of truth on the head while a better-educated man would miss and mash his

thumb. But if I am in the pulpit, I'm only human. It seemed to me the

other day when I saw you and Nelson Floyd driving alone up the mountain

that the very fires of hell itself raged inside of me. I always hold

family prayer at home for the benefit of my mother and sister, but that

night I cut it out, and lay on the bed rolling and tossing like a crazy

man. He's handsome, Miss Cynthia, and he has a soft voice and a way of

making all women sympathize with him--why they do it, I don't know. It's

true he's had a most miserable childhood, but he is making money hand

over hand now, and has everything in his favor.”

“He's not a happy man, Mr. Hillhouse; any one who knows him can see

that.”

“Oh, I suppose he broods over the mystery that hangs over his origin,”

said the preacher. “That's only natural for an ambitious man. I once

knew a fellow who was a foundling, and he told me he never intended to

get married on that account. He was morbidly sensitive about it, but it

is different with Floyd. He _does_ know his name, at least, and he will,

no doubt, discover his relatives some day. But it hurts me to see you

with him so much.”

“Why, he goes with other girls,” Cynthia said, her lips set together

tightly, her face averted.

“And perhaps you know, Miss Cynthia, that people talk about some of the

girls he has been with.”

“I know that,” said the girl, looking at him with an absent glance.

“There is no use going over it. I hear nothing all day long at home

except that--that--that! Oh, sometimes I wish I were dead!”

“Ah, that hurts worse than anything I have heard you say,” declared the

minister, stroking his thin face with an unsteady hand. “Why should

a beautiful, pure, human flower like you be made unhappy because of

contact with a--”

“Stop, I tell you, stop!” the girl stared at him with flashing eyes. “I

am not going to have you talk to me as if I were a child. I know him as

well as you do. You constantly preach that a person ought to be forgiven

of his sins, and yet you want to load some people down with theirs--that

is, when it suits you. He has as good a right to--to--to reform as any

one, and I myself have heard you say that the vilest sin often purifies

and lifts one up. Don't get warped all to one side, Mr. Hillhouse. I

shall not respect your views any more if you do.”

The minister was white in the face and trembling helplessly.

“You are tying me hand and foot,” he said, with a sigh. “If I ever had a

chance to gain my desires I am killing them, but God knows I can't help

it. I am fighting for my life.”

“And behind another's back,” added the girl, bravely. “You've got to

be fair to him. As for myself, I don't believe half the things that the

busy-bodies have said about him. Let me tell you something.” They

had come to a little brook which they had to cross on brown, almost

submerged stepping-stones, and she paused, turned to him and laid her

small hand on his arm, and said, portentously: “Nelson Floyd has been

alone with me several times, and has never yet told me that he loved

me.”

“I'm not going to say what is in my mind,” Hill-house said, with a cold,

significant, even triumphant sneer on his white lip, as he took her hand

and helped her across the stream.

“You say you won't?” Cynthia gave him her eyes, almost pleadingly.

“That is, not unless you will let me be plain with you,” Hillhouse

answered, “as plain as I'd be to my sister.”

They walked on side by side in silence, now very near her father's

house.

“You may as well finish what you were going to say,” the girl gave

in, with a sigh of resignation not untinged with a curiosity which had

devoured her precaution.

“Well, I was going to say that, if what I have gathered here and

there is true, it is Nelson Floyd's favorite method to _look_, do you

understand?--to _look_, not talk love to the girls he goes with. He has

never, it seems, committed himself by a scratch of a pen or by word of

mouth, and yet every silly woman he has paid attention to (before he

began to go with you) has secretly sworn to herself that she was the

world and all to him.”

Cynthia's face became grave. Her glance went down, and for a moment she

seemed incapable of speech. Finally, however, her color rose, and she

laughed defiantly.

“Well, here is a girl, Mr. Hillhouse, who will not be fooled that

way, you may rely on that. So don't, worry about me. I'll take care of

myself.”

“I've no doubt you will,” said the preacher, gloomily.

“Yes, you'll see that I can,” Cynthia declared, with animation. “There's

mother on the porch. Good gracious! do change the subject. If she sets

in on it, I'll not come to the table. Like you, she believes all she has

heard against him. She likes you and hates the ground he walks on.”

“Perhaps that, too, will be my damnation,” Hill-house retorted. “I know

something about human nature. I may see the day that I'd be glad of a

doubtful reputation.”

He caught her reproachful glance at this remark as he opened the gate

for her and followed her in. Porter sat on the porch in the shade

reading a newspaper, and his wife stood in the door-way.

“Run in and take off your things, Cynthia,” Mrs. Porter said, with a

welcoming smile. “Brother Hillhouse can sit with your pa till we call

dinner. I want you to help me a little bit. Your grandmother is lying

down, and doesn't feel well enough to come to the table.”

When the women had gone in, and the preacher had seated himself in

a rough, hide-bottomed chair near his host, Porter, with a chuckle,

reached down to the floor and picked up a short, smooth stick, to the

end of which was attached a piece of leather about three inches wide and

four inches long.

“That's an invention o' mine,” Porter explained, proudly, as he tapped

his knee with the leather. “Brother Hillhouse, ef you was to offer me a

new five-dollar note fer this thing, an' I couldn't git me another, I'd

refuse p'int blank.”

“You don't say,” said Hillhouse, concentrating his attention to the

article by strong effort; “what is it for?”

“I don't know any other name fer it than a 'fly-flap,'” said Porter. “I

set here one day tryin' to read, an' the flies made sech a dead-set at

my bald head that it mighty nigh driv' me crazy. I kept fightin' 'em

with my paper an' knockin' my specks off an' losin' my place at sech a

rate that I got to studyin' how to git out of the difficulty, fer thar

was a long fly-spell ahead of us. Well, I invented this thing, an' I

give you my word it's as good fun as goin' a-fishin'. I kin take it in

my hand--this away--an' hold the paper, too, an' the minute one o' the

devilish things lights on my scalp, I kin give a twist o' the wrist an'

that fly's done fer. You see the leather is too flat an' saft to hurt

_me_, an' I never seed a fly yit that was nimble enough to git out from

under it. But my fun is mighty nigh over,” Porter went on. “Flies has

got sense; they profit by experience the same as folks does; at any

rate, they seem to know thar's a dead-fall set on my bald-spot, an'

they've quit tryin' to lay the'r eggs in the root-holes o' my hair. Only

now and then a newcomer is foolhardy and inclined to experiment. The old

customers are as scared o' my head as they are of a spider-web.”

“It certainly is a rare device,” said Hillhouse. “I don't know that I

ever heard of one before.”

“I reckon not,” the farmer returned, placidly. “Somebody always has to

lead out in matters of improvement. My wife an' daughter was dead-set

agin me usin' it at fust. They never looked into the workin' of it

close, an' thought I mashed my prey on my head, but thar never was a

bigger mistake. The flap don't even puncture the skin, as tender as

the'r hides are. I know it don't, beca'se they always fall flat o' the'r

backs an' kick awhile before givin' up. I invented another thing that I

value mighty nigh as high as I do this. I never have seed another one

o' them in use, nuther. It's in my room in the bureau-drawer. It's a

back-scratcher. It's got a long, white-oak handle, like this, an' a

little, rake-shaped trick with hickory teeth at the end. Well, sir, you

may not believe it, but I kin shove that thing down under my shirt an'

hit a ticklin' spot before you kin bat yore eye, while I used to rub the

bark off'n the trees, all about, in my effort to git bodily relief. You

may 'a' seed me leave meetin' right in the middle o' some o' yore talks.

Well, that's beca'se my wife an' Cynthia won't let me take it to church

with me. They'd a thousand times ruther I'd go outside an' rub agin a

tree like a razor-back shote than have me do a thing that the Prices an'

Duncans hain't accustomed to. Sech folks are agin progress.”

Hillhouse laughed obligingly, his mind on what Cynthia had said to him,

and then Mrs. Porter came to the door and announced that dinner was

served.

V

POLE BAKER decided to give the young people of the neighborhood a

“corn-shucking.” He had about fifty bushels of the grain which he said

had been mellowing and sweetening in the husk all the winter, and,

as the market-price had advanced from sixty to seventy-five cents, he

decided to sell.

Pole's corn-shuckings were most enjoyable festivities. Mrs. Baker

usually had some good refreshments and the young people came for miles

around. The only drawback about the affairs was that Pole seldom had

much corn to husk, and the fun was over too soon. The evening chosen for

the present gathering was favored with clear moonlight and delightfully

balmy weather, and when Nelson Floyd walked over after working an hour

on his books at the store, he found a merry group in Pole's front-yard.

“Yo're jest in time,” Pole called out to him, as he threw the frail gate

open for the guest to pass through. “I was afeared thar was a few more

petticoats than pants to string around my pile o' corn, an' you'll help

even up. Come on, all of you, let's mosey on down to the barn. Sally,”

he called out to his wife, a sweet-faced woman on the porch, “put them

childern to sleep an' come on.”

With merry laughter the young men and girls made a rush in the direction

of the barn. Nelson Floyd, with a sudden throbbing of the heart, had

noticed Cynthia Porter in the group, and as he and Baker fell in behind

he asked: “Who came with Cynthia Porter, Pole?”

“Nobody,” said Baker. “She come over jest 'fore dark by the short-cut

through the meadow. I'll bet a hoss you are thinkin' o' galavantin' 'er

back home.”

“That's what I came for,” said Floyd, with a smile.

“Well, I'm sorry, fer this once,” said Pole; “but I cayn't alter my

plans fer friend or foe. I don't have but one shuckin' a year, an' on

that occasion I'm a-goin' to be plumb fair to all that accept my invite.

You may git what you want, but you'll have to stand yore chance with the

balance. I'll announce my rules in a minute, an' then you'll understand

what I mean.”

They had now reached the great cone of com heaped up at the door of

the barn, and the merrymakers were dancing around it in the moonlight,

clapping their hands and singing.

“Halt one minute!” Pole called out peremptorily, and there was silence.

“Now,” he continued, “all of you set down on the straw an' listen to my

new rules. I've been studyin' these out ever since my last shuckin', an'

these will beat all. Now listen! Time is a great improver, an' we all

don't have to-shuck corn jest like our granddaddies did. I want to make

this thing interest you, fer that pile o' corn has to be shucked an'

throwed into the barn 'fore you leave yore places.”

“Well, I wouldn't preach a sermon fust,” laughed Mrs. Baker, as she

appeared suddenly. “Boys an' gals that git together fer a good time

don't want to listen to an old married man talk.”

“But one married man likes to listen to _that woman_ talk, folks,” Pole

broke in, “fer her voice makes sweet music to his ear. That's a fact,

gentlemen an' ladies; here's one individual that could set an' listen to

that sweet woman's patient voice from dark to sun-up, an' then pray fer

more dark, an' more talk. I hain't the right sort of a man to yoke to,

but she is the right sort of a woman. They hain't all that way, though,

boys, an' I'd advise you that are worthy of a good helpmate to think an'

look before you plunge into matrimony. Matrimony is like a sheet of ice,

which, until you bust it, may cover pure, runnin' water or a stagnant

mud-hole. Before marriage a woman will say yes an' no, as meek as that

entire bunch of females. Sugar wouldn't melt in 'er mouth, but when she

hooks her fish she'll do her best to make a sucker out'n it ef it's a

brook trout at the start. I mean a certain _kind_ of a woman, now; but

thank the Lord, He made the other sort, too, an' the other sort, boys,

is what you ort to look fer. I heard a desperate old bach say once that

he believed he'd stand a better chance o' gittin' a good female nature

under a homely exterior than under a pretty one, an' he was on the

rampage fer a snaggle tooth; but I don't know. A nature that's made

jest by a face won't endure one way or another long. Thar's my little

neighbor over thar, ef she don't combine both a purty face an' a sweet,

patient nature I'm no judge.”

“Hush, Pole, Cynthia don't want you to single her out in public that

away,” protested Mrs. Baker.

“He's simply bent on flattering more work out of me,” responded Cynthia,

quite adroitly, Floyd thought, as he noted her blushes in the moonlight.

“We are waiting for your rules, Mr. Baker.”

“Yes,” spoke up Floyd, “give us the rules, and let us go to work, and

then you can talk all you want to.”

“All right, here goes. Well, you are all settin' about the same distance

from the pile, an' you've got an equal chance. Now, the fust man or

woman who finds a red ear of corn must choose a partner to work with,

an', furthermore, it shall be the duty o' the man to escort the girl

home, an' in addition to that the winnin' man shall be entitled to

kiss any girl in the crowd, an' she hereby pledges herself to submit

graceful. It's a bang-up good rule, fer them that want to be kissed kin

take a peep at the ear 'fore it's shucked, an' throw it to any man they

like, an' them that don't kin hope fer escape by blind luck from sech an

awful fate.”

“I think, myself, that it would be an awful fate to be kissed by a man

you didn't care for,” laughed Mrs. Baker. “Pole has made his rules to

suit the men better than the women.”

“The second rule is this,” added Pole, with a smile, “an' that is, that

whoever finds a red ear, man or woman, I git to kiss my wife.”

“Good, that's all right!” exclaimed Floyd, and everybody laughed as they

set to work. Pole sat down near Floyd, and filled and lighted his pipe.

“I used to think everything was fair in a game whar gals was concerned,”

he said in an undertone. “I went to a shuckin' once whar they had these

rules an' I got on to exactly what I see you are on to.”

“Me? What do you mean?” asked Floyd. “Why, you sly old dog, you are not

shuckin' more than one ear in every three you pick up. You are lookin'

to see ef the silk is dark. You have found out that a red ear always

has dark silk.” Floyd laughed. “Don't give me away, Pole. I learned that

when old man Scott used to send me out on a frosty morning to feed the

cattle.”

“Well, I won't say nothin',” Pole promised. “Ef money was at stake,

it 'ud be different, but they say all's fair whar wine an' women is

concerned. Besides, the sharper a man is the better he'll provide fer

the wife he gits, an' a man ought to be allowed to profit by his own

experience. You go ahead; ef you root a red ear out o' that pile, old

hog, I'll count you in.” Pole rose and went round the other side of the

stack. There was a soft rustling sound as the husks were torn away and

swept in rising billows behind the workers, and the steady thumping of

the ears as they fell inside the barn.

It was not a fair game he was playing, and yet Nelson Floyd cared little

for that. Even as it was, it was growing monotonous. He had come there

to see Cynthia, and Pole's new rule was not what he had counted on.

There was a lull in the merriment and general rustle, and Floyd heard

Hattie Mayhew say in a clear tone: “I know why Cynthia is so quiet. It's

because there wasn't somebody here to open with prayer.”

Floyd was watching Cynthia's face, and he saw it cloud over for a

moment. She made some forced reply which he could not hear. It was Kitty

Welborn's voice that came to him on her merry laugh.

“Oh, yes, Cynthia has us all beaten badly!” said that little blonde. “We

worked our fingers to the bones fixing up his room. Cynthia didn't

lay her hand to it, and yet he never looks at any one else while he is

preaching, and as soon as the sermon is over he rushes for her. They say

Mr. Porter thinks Mr. Hillhouse is watching him, and has quit going to

sleep.”

“That's a fact,” said Fred Denslow, as he aimed a naked ear of corn at

the barn-door and threw it. “The boys say Hillhouse will even let 'em

cuss before him, just so they will listen to what he says about Miss

Cynthia.”

“That isn't fair to Miss Cynthia,” Nelson Floyd observed, suddenly. “I'm

afraid you are making it pretty hot for her on that side, so I'm going

to invite her over here. You see I have found the first red ear of corn,

and it's big enough to count double.”

There was a general shout and clapping of hands as Floyd held it up to

view in the moonlight. He put it into the pocket of his coat, as he rose

and moved round towards Cynthia. Bending down to her, he said: “Come on,

you've got to obey the rules of the game, you know.”

She allowed him to draw her to her feet.

“Now fer the fust act?” Pole Baker cried out. “I hain't a-goin' to have

no bashful corn-shuckers. Ef you balk or kick over a trace, I'll leave

you out next time, shore.”

“You didn't make a thoroughly fair rule, Pole,” said Floyd. “The days of

woman slavery are past. I shall not take advantage of the situation, for

I know Miss Cynthia is praying for mercy right now.” Everybody laughed

as Floyd led the girl round to his place and raked up a pile of shucks

for her to sit on.

“Well, there ought to have been another rule,” laughed Fred Denslow,

“an' to the effect that if the winning man, through sickness, lack of

backbone, or sudden death, was prevented from takin' the prize,

somebody else ought to have had a chance. Here I've been workin' like

a corn-field negro to win, and now see the feller Heaven has smiled on

throwin' that sort of a flower away. Good gracious, what's the world

comin' to?”

“Well, I'll have _mine_, anyway,” Pole Baker was heard to say, and he

took his little wife in his arms and kissed her tenderly.