al, perhaps
loathsome in your eyes."

"No," she said with a shiver. "Perhaps you had to do it."

"Yes, under a keen whip, the desire to continue my education. I think
I must have been the first of my race to run forward at the tap of a
knife on a dish. In my strong determination to fit myself--as I then
thought--for the duties of life, I would have done almost anything to
further my plans; and I was never really ashamed of my having to wait
at table to earn knowledge-money, until the night I saw you--until you
turned to some one and said: 'What, that thing!'"

"I did say that," she answered, "yes, and I have censured myself a
thousand times. I hoped that you had not heard me. I am awfully
sorry."

"Oh, I don't take it to heart. It hurt my pride a little and it gave
me a wrong impression of you."

"Let us forget it. I was always a fool--until after that night. But
about the woman, what became of her?"

"I don't know. She blew away like the down of the dandelion."

"And you didn't see her again?"

"Never again."

"But you dreamed of her?"

"No. You misunderstand me. I didn't fall in love with her. I say that
I might have loved her. Perhaps upon becoming acquainted with her, I
might have smiled at my foolish belief--might have found her
uninteresting."

"You said there was one or two--the other one? What about her?"

"I don't remember her at all. I say that I may have seen her, but I
don't recall her."

"Perhaps the other one has read your story."

"Or perhaps her daughter honeyed over it on her wedding journey," he
suggested, laughing.

A light vehicle rattled down the road, and she looked up. "I was
thinking that someone might drive past and recognize us," she said.
"It may be wrong, but I don't want father to know that we meet, except
by accident."

"Wasn't this meeting an accident?" he asked, hoping that she would say
it was not, on her part.

"Yes. But sitting here under this tree is not. And I must go," she
added, arising. He got up and stood there, hoping that she would hold
out her hand to him, but she did not. "Good-bye," she said, smiling as
she turned away.

"Let me hope for another accident, soon," Lyman replied, bowing to
her.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AT THE WAGON-MAKER'S SHOP.

Sawyer drove rapidly toward Spring Hill, about eight miles distant
from Old Ebenezer. The land was uneven, with oak ridges, beech slopes
and shell-bark hickory flats, but the road was smooth, and for the tw