the left. Faint, liquid
trip-hammerings, they were, upon brittle anvils.

"It's a good thing some things don't change," she said at length, in a
low tone.

"I reckon."

They watched the glow fade from the sky, the broad bands of orange
receding swiftly westward, while the cloud rim above the horizon
cooled softly into pink and coral and a sudden soft patter of rain
upon the dried vines and leaves above their heads aroused them.
Without a word, Mary Louise slipped past him and ran for the house. He
followed.

On the side porch she turned and waited for him, and he came and stood
before her, hatless, in the rain. "I'd better be getting back before
it gets any worse--see you in the morning?"

"Let me get you an umbrella." She turned and was about to enter the
house.

"No. Can't use 'em. Get hung up in the trees. What time you want to
start out? Nine o'clock? See you at nine."

"That's too early. Make it ten. I'm busy. Besides, it's Sunday."

"Comin' at nine," he called over his shoulder and started for the
gate.

She watched his retreating figure as he darted along through the
shadow, and then she slowly turned and entered the sitting room. A dim
yellow light from a single oil lamp on the table over against the
right wall was feebly penetrating the deep shadows in far corners. The
low-ceilinged room seemed huge and cavernous, with deep niches and
crannies and bulky, shadowy objects. Miss Susie sat by the table with
her knitting, her face yellower than ever, her hands feverishly
restive. She raised her head as Mary Louise closed the door, and the
tiny lines, accentuated by the lamplight, covered her face like
markings upon an ancient scroll.

"Why didn't he come in, honey?"

"I don't know, Aunt Susie. He was in a hurry."

"What's he doing in town? Thought he'd gone back to work in
Louisville."

"I don't know, Aunt Susie."

Miss McCallum picked up her knitting. She sniffed. "No, I s'pose not."

Mary Louise went over and kissed her aunt lightly upon the forehead,
and then disappeared through a shadowy door back into shadowy depths.
Directly came a sound of clattering tinware and then the faint echoes
of a song, hummed, and slightly nasal. A smile flickered across Miss
Susie's lips as she watched her fingers--the needles flitting swiftly
in and out.

CHAPTER II

They drew rein on a hill which sloped gently away to the town a mile
or so distant. Over to the right in a cluster of trees gleamed t