event. They saw him emerge from
the inn with Yvette, help her into the buggy with great solicitude, and
drive away. They did not return until supper time was long past.

"I'm determined to git this settled one way or t'other," said Homer,
after a long pause. "Be you goin' to marry me?"

"Why do you want me?" Yvette asked, fixing her eyes on his face. "Is it
just because you think I'm pretty?"

He considered. It was a hard question for a young man not adept in the
use of words to answer. "'Tain't jest that," he said, finally. "I like
you bein' perty. But it's somethin' else. I hain't able to explain it,
exceptin' that I want you more'n I ever wanted anythin' in my life."

"Maybe, when I tell you about myself, you won't want me at all."

He paused again, while she studied his face anxiously.

"I dunno.... I--. Tell ye what. I want you like I know you. I'm
satisfied. I don't want you to tell me nothin'. I don't want to know
nothin'." He turned and looked with clumsy gravity into her eyes, which
did not waver. "Besides," he said, "I don't believe you got anythin'
discreditable to tell."

"I want to tell you."

"I don't want to hear," he said, simply. "I'd rather take you, jest
trustin' you and knowin' in my heart that you're good. Somehow I _know_
it."

She bit her lip, her eyes were moist, and she sat very still for a long
time; then she said, softly: "I didn't know men like that lived.... I
didn't know."

Then again, after the passage of minutes: "I was going to marry you,
Homer, just for a home and a good man and to get peace.... But I sha'n't
do it now. I can't come between you and all your folks--and they
wouldn't have me."

"You're more to me than everybody else throwed together."

"No, Homer. Before I didn't think I cared.... I do care, Homer. I--I
love you. I don't mind saying it now.... I'm going away in the morning."

It was a point they argued all the day, but Yvette was not to be moved,
and Homer was in despair. As he drove into the village that evening,
glum and unhappy, Yvette said: "Stop at Mr. Baines's, please, Homer. I
want to speak to him."

Scattergood was in his accustomed place before his store, shoes on the
piazza beside him, and his feet, guiltless of socks, reveling in their
liberty.

"Mr. Baines," said Yvette, "I've made up my mind to go away to-morrow."

"Um!... To-morrer, eh? Made up your mind you don't want Homer, have ye?
Don't blame ye. He's a mighty humble critter."

"He