ned lane.

"Hello, Milt, where you bound?"

Milton glanced up with a curious look in his laughing eyes. From the
pockets of his long linen duster he drew a handful of beautiful scarlet
and yellow Siberian crab-apples.

"See them crabs?"

"Yes, I see 'em."

Milton drew a similar handful out of his left pocket. "See those?"

"What y' going to do with 'em?"

"Take 'em home again."

Something in Milton's voice led him to ask soberly:--

"What did you intend doing with 'em?"

"Present 'em to Miss Cole."

"Well, why didn't y' do it?"

Milton showed his white teeth in a smile that was frankly derisive of
himself.

"Well, when I got over there I found young Conley's sorrel hitched to
one post and Walt Brown's gray hitched to the other. I went in, but I
didn't stay long; in fact, I didn't sit down. I was afraid those
infernal apples would roll out o' my pockets. I was afraid they'd find
out I brought 'em over there for Miss Cole, like the darn fool I was."

They both laughed heartily. Milton was always as severe upon himself as
upon any one else.

"That's tough," said Ben, "but climb in, and let's go to Sunday-school."

Milton got in, and they ate the apples as they rode along.

The Grove schoolhouse was the largest in the township, and was the only
one with a touch of redeeming grace. It was in a lovely spot; great oaks
stood all about, and back of it the woods grew thick, and a clear creek
gurgled over its limestone bed not far away.

To Ben and Milton there was a wondrous charm about the Grove
schoolhouse. It was the one place where the boys and girls met in
garments disassociated from toil. Sundays in summer, and on winter
nights at lyceums or protracted meetings, the boys came to see the
girls in their bright dresses, with their clear and (so it seemed)
scornful bright eyes.

All through the service Ben sat where he could see Grace by turning his
head, but he had not the courage to do so. Once or twice he caught a
glimpse of the curve of her cheek and the delicate lines of her ear, and
a suffocating throb came into his throat.

He wanted to ask her to go with him down to Cedarville to the Methodist
camp-meeting, but he knew it was impossible. He could not even say "good
day" when she took pains to pass near him after church. He nodded like a
great idiot, all ease and dignity lost, his throat too dry and hot to
utter a sound.

He cursed his shyness as he went out after his horse. He saw her pickin