here was a melancholy note in the tweet of the low-flitting
birds. The rustling trees softened their murmur to a continuous whisper,
soothing and caressing. The tinkle of the creek became more metallic and
pronounced. Near by, down the stream, a sudden chorus of frogs burst
into croaking, their isolated notes blended by the chirping undertone of
the crickets and tree toads. There were other sounds, mysterious,
untraceable, but all musical in greater or lesser degree.

He understood at last. These sounds, the rustling leaves, the flitting
birds, the tinkling creek, the frogs, tree toads and crickets and those
other intangible cadences, these were the instruments of nature's vast
orchestra, playing their lullaby, languorous and sweet, for the drowsy
day. It was dusk, and he was desperately in love with Adnah, and he had
on a fool bloomer bath suit and no money, and he had to go back into
civilization just as he was. Woe, woe, woe and anathema!

At the house he found a table set under a big oak tree back of the
kitchen. Supper for one was illumined by the rays of a solitary lantern.
Aunt Sarah and Aunt Ann, each with a pistol in her lap, sat grimly to
one side. Adnah nor Aunt Matilda were anywhere to be seen, and he
divined with a thrill that Aunt Matilda was acting as jailer to the
young woman until he should be safely off the premises. Evidently she
had been hard to manage. Bless the little girl!

He took off his hat as he approached and bowed respectfully.

"I should like you to know who I am," he began.

"You will please to eat your supper without conversation," Aunt Sarah
sternly interrupted.

"I wish to pay my addresses to your niece," he protested, but the two
ladies, finding rudeness necessary, clasped their hands to their ears.

"Kindly eat," said Aunt Sarah, without removing her hands.

He sat down and glared at the food in despair. He thought he heard
Adnah's voice and the sounds of a scuffle in the house, and it gave him
inspiration. He arose, and, leaning his hands on the edge of the table,
shouted as loudly as he could:

"I am John Melton, of Philadelphia. I will give you as many references
as you like. I wish your permission to write to your niece and, later
on, to call upon her. May I do so?"

"Are you going to eat your supper?" inquired Aunt Sarah.

He gave up. He could not, as a gentleman, take Aunt Sarah's hands from
her ears and make her listen to what he had to say. He turned sadly away
fro