ecame a most peculiar one.
He had been given an important preliminary advantage, if he chose to
aspire to the love of the sweet one at his side; but he thought hard, and
did not lose his self-poise or sense of honor.

"It is natural that she should despise his poltroonery and feel grateful
to me," was his thought; "but, after all, it isn't likely she holds any
emotion other than simple gratitude. It would be base in me to presume
upon it. I will not do so."

The drive was comparatively a short one to the handsome residence of the
Warmores. As Tom guided the mettlesome pony through the open gate and up
the winding roadway to the front of the porch, Mrs. Warmore came out pale
with fright. She had just learned of the accident from G. Field
Catherwood, who had limped up the steps with a rambling tale of how he had
been flung headlong from the vehicle at the moment he was about to seize
Jennie and lift her free.

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the mother, when she saw her daughter unharmed;
"I was sure you were killed."

Catherwood hobbled forward from behind the lady, leaning on his cane.

"I say 'amen' to those sentiments," he added, too much flustered just then
to use his affected style of speech. "O Jennie, my heart was broken when I
was hurled out before I could save you. Allow me."

"You had better look after your own safety," she said, refusing his help,
as she stepped lightly from the cart. "Jack might start again. Mother, Mr.
Gordon here saved my life."

At this moment the groom appeared, and the blushing Tom turned the horse
over to him, and, pretending he had not heard the words of Jennie, lifted
his hat.

"It has come out all right; I bid you good-evening."

Catherwood quickly rallied from the snub of the lady. He slipped his
fingers in his vest-pocket and drew out a bill, which he handed to Tom.

"What's that for?" asked the wondering youth, taking the crumpled paper.

"Aw--that's all right, my deah fellow--you earned it--dooced clevah in
you"--

Tom Gordon compressed the paper into a small wad, and placing it between
his thumb and forefinger, as though it were a marble, shot it against the
eyeglasses of the amazed dude.

"That's my opinion of _you_," he said, turning about and walking off,
before the agitated Mrs. Warmore could thank him.

"I suppose I've done it," he mused, when in the highway and walking toward
Farmer Pitcairn's. "Catherwood never did like me and now he hates me. If
Miss Jennie ke