"I lay you'd be mighty glad ef I didn't come no more," he said, with a
half smile. "I reckon it kinder rankles you for to see old Tuck Peevy
a-hangin' roun' when the t'other feller's in sight." Babe's only reply
was a scornful toss of the head.

"Oh, yes!" Peevy went on, "hit rankles you might'ly; yit I lay it won't
rankle you so much atter your daddy is took an' jerked off to Atlanty. I
tell you, Babe, that ar man is one er the revenues--they hain't no two
ways about that."

Babe regarded her angry lover seriously.

"Hit ain't no wonder you make up your min' ag'in' him when you er done
made it up ag'in' me. I know in reason they must be somep'n 'nother
wrong when a great big grown man kin work hisself up to holdin' spite.
Goodness knows, I wish you wuz like you useter be when I fust know'd
you."

Peevy's sallow face flushed a little at the remembrance of those
pleasant, peaceful days; but, somehow, the memory of them had the effect
of intensifying his jealous mood.

"'Tain't me that's changed aroun'," he exclaimed passionately, "an'
'tain't the days nuther. Hit's you--you! An' that fine gent that's a
hanging roun' here is the 'casion of it. Ever'whar I go, hit's the talk.
Babe, you know you er lovin' that man!"

Peevy was wide of the mark, but the accusation was so suddenly and so
bluntly made that it brought the blood to Babe's face--a tremulous
flush that made her fairly radiant for a moment. Undoubtedly Mr.
Chichester had played a very pleasing part in her youthful imagination,
but never for an instant had he superseded the homely figure of Tuck
Peevy. The knowledge that she was blushing gave Babe an excuse for
indignation that women are quick to take advantage of. She was so angry,
indeed, that she made another mistake.

"Why, Tuck Peevy!" she cried, "you shorely must be crazy. He wouldn't
wipe his feet on sech as me!"

"No," said Peevy, "I 'lowed he wouldn't, an' I 'lowed as how you
wouldn't wipe your feet on me." He paused a moment, still smiling his
peculiar smile. "Hit's a long ways down to Peevy, ain't it?"

"You er doin' all the belittlin'," said Babe.

"Oh, no, Babe! Ever'thing's changed. Why, even them dogs barks atter me.
Ever'thing's turned wrong-sud-outerds. An' you er changed wuss'n all."

"Well, you don't reckon I'm a-gwine ter run out'n the gate thar an'
fling myself at you, do you?" exclaimed Babe.

"No, I don't. I've thes come to-day for to git a cle'r understan'in'."
He hesitated a