Before he went home, Miss Lucy, desperate for sympathy, had told him of the fate of her Sunday's letter, of her father's anger, and of her unhappiness since.

"If you see _him_, Dock," she besought when Dock took his leave, "tell him not to be mad at me for not answerin' his letter: I'd love to answer hit the best in the world, but--Tell him I say maybe I've done somethin'

wrong and the Lord's a holdin' happiness back from me because of that sin. And tell him ef they won't let--ef I have to give him up, I'll never fergit him while I live!"

"I 'lowed they'd give out a marryin'," remarked Mr. Doggett, Sunday morning at the breakfast table, when Dock, who found it impossible longer to keep so interesting a a story to himself, had told Miss Lucy's tale of the lost letter. "I hain't heerd Mr. Lindsay say but mighty little about Miss Lucy, sence back in plowin' time, when the old man ordered him to not set foot in the house no more. He's mighty proud and he wuz so insulted, I 'lowed he'd never git over hit. Brock, he's been a lottin' on standin' fust with Miss Lucy, hain't he, old lady? Hit's cur'is how he got a holt o' old man Lindsay's letter, now, hain't hit?

Look's like a man'd teck better keer o' a love-letter than to be drappin' hit in the road."

Dunaway, between quick mouthfuls, looked keenly at Mrs. Doggett. The morning was warm, but its heat was not responsible for the red spots that burnt on her usually pale cheeks.

"Hit's strange Mr. Lindsay didn't come in last night," went on Mr.

Doggett: "although he wuz like us I reckon--worked so late in the terbaccer yisterday, he was jest too tired to possibly walk hit."

"He'll be along this morning probably; let's go down to the creek to meet him," suggested Dunaway.

When Mr. Lindsay crossed the felled sycamore, that stretched across the creek, which served when the riffle rocks were under water, for a foot-bridge, he found his friends awaiting him.

The smile with which he greeted them vanished, and his eyes hardened as he listened to Dunaway's story of the letter.

"That's the reason," he muttered, "I hain't got no letter from her this week: I've been a lookin' ever' day, and a wonderin' why none never come, and all the time the poor theng's been afeerd to write!"

"Hain't she the feerdest and the tender-heartedest woman you ever seed?"

said Mr. Doggett. "Dock said he left her a cryin' t'other night like a child lost from hits mother. And ever sence we've been a livin' here, she's been a cryin', oft and on, over somethin'. Yes, sir! The wonder is how any person can leak all the tears that she does, and be any juice left in her. Accordin' to my calculatin', by this time, she ort to be a lookin', after fifty years o' quiet weepin', and them last few days o'

tornader weepin' like one them dried Gypsum mummets Jim says he seed in the Cincinnati amusin'-pen."

"It looks like to me," remarked Dunaway, after a sudden, and to Mr.

Doggett, unaccountable burst of laughter, "a person of that age ought to be able to take up for self some."

"Hit does--but women folks is quair, Dunaway. Some of 'em will take any sort and amount of abuse and say nothin', and some even won't take a joke, no, sir. Hit's jest the way they're made. When I lived in Bourbon, I knowed a man, Colonel Keys,--the b.u.t.terest kind o' man in company you ever seed; n.o.body wouldn't 'a' thought he wuz anytheng but purty behaved in his fambly: but he wuz jest as rough thar as a hackle. His wife, though, ef she ever said a word to lead folks to thenk he wuz anytheng but plumb sugar to her, hit's yit to be heerd, and she's been dead feefteen year. He got mad at her one day, and when she had her back turned, he keecked her down the cellar steps, and the fall, hit broke her false teeth, and she swallered 'em and never lived the year out, no, sir!

"You've heerd me talk about Lawyer Willie Wall over in Bourbon, hain't you, Mr. Lindsay? Willie, he always said her bein' a woman that wouldn't take a joke wuz what parted him and his wife. Willie, he killed some rats, he'd caught in a cage rat-trap,--about a dozen, and skinned and cleaned 'em right nice, and tuck 'em, and told his wife, they wuz young squirrels, yes, sir! She fried 'em and they looked the nicest you ever seed on the table. Willie, he wouldn't eat nary un, said he wuzn't feelin' well, but she et one and a half, and then he told her what they wuz! They wuz some that didn't blame her fer leavin' him, no, sir, but he said he thought all women ought to be willin' to be joked now and then! Women is cur'is, I tell you, Dunaway."

"I wish," remarked Mr. Lindsay, who had paid but careless heed to Mr.

Doggett's recital, "somebody'd tell me how in the name o' sense Brock got a holt o' her letter when I laid hit between the leaves o' my Bible, and put the Book in the bottom of my trunk Sunday evenin' before I left?"

Dunaway shook his head. Mr. Doggett looked uneasy.

"Are you plumb sh.o.r.e you put hit thar, Mr. Lindsay? Hit might be you drapped hit out'n your pocket a climbin' the fence, yes, sir, hit might."

"I laid that letter in the Book of John, in the New Testament part of my Bible," emphasized Mr. Lindsay, with some impatience. "Who knowed I had the letter, besides you and Dock, anyway, Dunaway?"

Dunaway, seated on the stump of the felled sycamore (he never stood when he could sit) batted his eye in a wink that suggested many things.

"A body ortn't to be too certain o' nothin', Mr. Lindsay, whar his mem'ry is the only proof he's got--a feller is so liable to fergit," Mr.

Doggett hastened to say. "Now I knowed a young doctor over in Bourbon that went back to his old boardin'-place the next day after he married, and his bride wuz a settin' in her Ma's house whar they wuz goin' to live, wonderin' why he didn't come home to supper. He forgot he wuz married!"

Mr. Lindsay laughed, but his laugh did not sound quite natural, and he followed his friends to the house in a state of growing anger toward Mr.

Brock and one other to whom his suspicions most strongly pointed, his whilom friend, Mrs. Doggett.

Gran'dad sat propped up in a chair, with pillows, slightly pale from the effects of a fall he had suffered the day before,--a fall that in no wise had affected his tongue.

"Well, Lindsay," he grinned, "I hear love-letters air so common with ye, you throw 'em down in the highway!"

Mr. Lindsay frowned heavily. "I never have throwed one in the road yit, and whoever says I did--"

"He belongs in the company o' them that 'shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone,'" quoted Gran'dad, interrupting him.

"Hit don't seem to me that tellin' a leetle made up tale to holp hisse'f along in courtin' would be accounted a crime on a feller," proffered his son.

"Mebbe the feller that's done hit wouldn't be accounted guilty of crime in the Courts, Ephriam," sagely observed Gran'dad, "but he ort to be in the pen on gineral principles anyhow!"

"Ef hit's Mr. Brock you're a hintin' on," said Mrs. Doggett, "I've got this to tell you: anybody that says a word ag'in Galvin Brock, may eat dough that pa.s.ses through my fingers, but he hain't no ways _welcome_ to hit!"

She spoke lightly, but the spark in her eyes belied the lightness of her tones. Mr. Lindsay rose, and with the remark that it was time all respectable people had on their Sunday clothes, went upstairs where his wardrobe was kept. Dunaway and Dock followed him.

When they came down they announced that the three of them were going to Jim and Henrietty's to spend the day.

"What wuz that you throwed out the winder, Dock, jest before you come down?" queried his grandfather who sat facing the front window. "Hit fell in that yaller rosey-bush."

"Jes' my dirty clothes, Gran'dad," answered Dock, cheerfully, going out to rescue the bundle.

"Bein's the boys is all gone, Mr. Lindsay," Mr. Doggett reached for his hat,--"and Dad liable to be a nappin', I'll git sorter lonesome. I believe I'll jest step up to old man Jeemeses as you all go, fer a few minutes, and see how he is."

Dock and Dunaway had disappeared, but just before the older men came in sight of the James house, they joined them, Dunaway clothed in the shirt-waist costume of the Sunday before.

Mr. Doggett gazed at Dunaway in his stylish habiliments, and opened his mouth for remark, but thoughtfully and considerately closed it again.

"I guess I'll have to leave you here," said Mr. Doggett, lifting the latch of the gate in the high picket fence that ran along the back of the James garden and orchard. Mr. Lindsay laid a detaining hand on Mr.

Doggett's shoulder.

"Think you could talk to the old man and keep him settin' still there on the back porch fer an hour er so, Uncle Eph?"

Mr. Doggett smiled intelligently. "Ef hit will help you and her out any," he declared, "I'll guarantee to entertain the old feller, until livin' terbaccer worms quits a eatin'!"

Mr. James roused himself from the nap into which he had fallen after Miss Nancy had departed for church, and Miss Lucy had gone to the kitchen, and welcomed his guest cordially.

"All as well as common, yes, sir," a.s.sented Mr. Doggett, "but Dad. He fell down the stair-steps a yistiddy and sprung his neck. He's not been able to git about sence, and I'm afeerd he'll be laid up all week."

"Old fellers will fall about," remarked Mr. James.

"Yes, sir, they will. Although Dad's allus been so active, he fergits age is a creepin' on him. j.a.ppy, he takes after Dad,--jest as active as a cat. He went to the skeetin'-rink about three weeks ago--the fust time he ever wuz at the rink--and outdone all the skeeters. He said he wuz a aimin' to try the next Sat.u.r.day night they have hit, fer the ten doller skeet-book. Ten dollers seems a heap o' money fer one book to cost--although hit might be hit's got some kind o' gold er silver claspin's er orniments on hit, yes, sir.

"And what good hit'll do j.a.ppy ef he wins. .h.i.t, I don't see, considerin'

he can't read. I've allus been so busy, the boys hain't had no schoolin', no, sir."

"Joey can read, can't he?" asked his listener.

"Yes, sir--Joey he takes to the book like a lawyer: reads might' nigh ever' book er paper he can lay hand to. Joey, he says when he wuz up at the Castle's a Sunday or two ago, Lisle, he took him in a room that the four walls of, wuz jest one thickness o' books, and Lisle showed him a book he wuz a larnin' in he called the _Latins_. Dad says. .h.i.t 'pears like he can't quote no scripture on the Latins. I told him they might 'a' lived in old Pharaoh's time, though that's jest my guess."

"Thar's certain a lot of thengs in the world the most of us don't know nothin' about," conceded Mr. James.