g, and picking up a grey
turkey's wing from the ledge, Abel began brushing out the valve of the
mill, in which the meal had grown heavy from dampness.

"The truth is, Moses," he remarked, "you are a fool to want what you
can't have in life." The puppy looked up at him inquiringly, its long
ears flapping about its soft foolish face. "But I reckon we're all
fools, when it comes to that."

When the grinding was over for the day, he shut down the mill, and
calling Moses to heel, went out on the old mill-race, where the upper
gate was locked by a crude wooden spar known as the "key." He was
standing under the sycamore, with this implement in his hand, when he
discerned the figure of Molly approaching slowly amid the feathery white
pollen which lay in patches of delicate bloom over the sorrel waste of
the broomsedge. Without moving he waited until she had crossed the log
and stood looking up at him from the near side of the stream.

"Abel, are you still angry with me?" she asked, smiling.

Dropping the key into the lock, he walked slowly to the end of the
mill-race, and descended the short steps to the hillside.

"No, I'm not angry--at least I don't think I am--but I've taken your
advice and given you up."

"But, Abel---"

"I suppose you meant to take Mr. Mullen all the time that you were
making a fool of me. He's a better man for you, probably, than I am."

"Do you really think that?" she asked in a tone of surprise. "Would you
like to see me married to him?"

He hesitated an instant and then answered: "I honestly believe that it
is the best thing for you to do."

Instead of producing the effect he had foreseen his advice brought a
luminous moisture to her eyes.

"I suppose you think it would do me good to be preached to three times a
day?" she rejoined.

"Well, I believe it wouldn't hurt you, Molly," he responded with a
smile.

His attitude of renouncement drew her suddenly nearer.

"It wasn't about Mr. Mullen that I came to talk to you--there is
something else."

"Surely you aren't thinking of Jim Halloween?"

"No, no, it isn't a man. Why do you seem to think that the beginning
and middle and end of my existence is a man? There are times when I find
even a turkey more interesting."

"It is about a turkey, then, that you have come to see me?"

"Oh, no, it's a man, after all, but not a lover--he's Mr. Chamberlayne,
the lawyer, from Applegate. Yesterday when he was spending the day at
the big house, he