s slanting top. "Hiram," said he,
abruptly, "Hiram, do you know that Levi West is forever hanging around
Billy Martin's house, after that pretty daughter of his?"

So long a space of silence followed the speech that the Squire began
to think that Hiram might not have heard him. But Hiram had heard.
"No," said he, "I didn't know it."

"Well, he is," said Squire Hall. "It's the talk of the whole
neighborhood. The talk's pretty bad, too. D'ye know that they say that
she was away from home three days last week, nobody knew where? The
fellow's turned her head with his sailor's yarns and his traveler's
lies."

Hiram said not a word, but he sat looking at the other in stolid
silence. "That stepbrother of yours," continued the old Squire
presently, "is a rascal--he is a rascal, Hiram, and I mis-doubt he's
something worse. I hear he's been seen in some queer places and with
queer company of late."

He stopped again, and still Hiram said nothing. "And look'ee, Hiram,"
the old man resumed, suddenly, "I do hear that you be courtin' the
girl, too; is that so?"

"Yes," said Hiram, "I'm courtin' her, too."

"Tut! tut!" said the Squire, "that's a pity, Hiram. I'm afraid your
cakes are dough."

After he had left the Squire's office, Hiram stood for a while in the
street, bareheaded, his hat in his hand, staring unwinkingly down at
the ground at his feet, with stupidly drooping lips and lackluster
eyes. Presently he raised his hand and began slowly smoothing down the
sandy shock of hair upon his forehead. At last he aroused himself with
a shake, looked dully up and down the street, and then, putting on his
hat, turned and walked slowly and heavily away.

The early dusk of the cloudy winter evening was settling fast, for the
sky was leaden and threatening. At the outskirts of the town Hiram
stopped again and again stood for a while in brooding thought. Then,
finally, he turned slowly, not the way that led homeward, but taking
the road that led between the bare and withered fields and crooked
fences toward Billy Martin's.

It would be hard to say just what it was that led Hiram to seek Billy
Martin's house at that time of day--whether it was fate or ill
fortune. He could not have chosen a more opportune time to confirm his
own undoing. What he saw was the very worst that his heart feared.

Along the road, at a little distance from the house, was a mock-orange
hedge, now bare, naked, leafless. As Hiram drew near he heard
foots