. Wear them ... to-night."

"Oh, no!" she cried, "not just setting around; they'll get smudged. Not
to-night, Gordon; maybe to-morrow, or when I go to church."

"Tonight," he repeated inexorably.

A bare, stained table with spreading legs pinned through the oak board was
ranged against a bench on the kitchen wall, where, in the watery light of
a small, glass lamp, Gordon and Clare Makimmon ate their supper of flat,
dark, salt-raised bread, strips of bacon and dripping greens, and
swimming, purplish preserves.

After supper they sat on the narrow porch, facing the dark, whispering
stream, the night pouring into the deep, still valley. A cold air rose
from the surface of the water, and Clare wrapped a worn piece of blanket
about her shoulders. At frequent intervals she gazed with palpable delight
at her feet, shod in the "real buck." A deep, melancholy chorus of frogs
rose from the creek, mingling with the high, metallic shrilling of
crickets, the reiterated calling of whippoorwills from a thicket of
pines.

Gordon Makimmon settled into a waking somnolence, lulled by the familiar,
profound, withdrawn repose of the valley. He could distinguish Clare's
form weaving back and forth in a low rocker; the moonless, summer night
embraced, hid, all; there were no lights in the house at his back, no
lights visible in the village beyond; only the impenetrable blackness of
the opposite range and the abrupt band of stars.

Suddenly Clare's even breathing, the tracking sound of the chair, ceased;
she drew two or three sharp, gasping inspirations. Gordon, instantly
alert, rose and stood over her. "Is it bad to-night again?" he asked
solicitously; "shall I get you the ginger water?"

"None ... in the house," she articulated laboriously; "pretty ... bad."

"No, don't leave me; just set; I'll be better in a spell." He fetched her
a glass of water, from which she gulped spasmodically, clutching with
cold, wet fingers to his wrist. Then the tension relaxed, her breathing
grew more normal. "It's by now," she proclaimed unsteadily.

"I'm going back the road for a little ginger," he told her from the edge
of the porch; "we'd best have the bottle filled."

The drug store was dark, closed for the night, and Gordon continued to
Simmons' store. The row of swinging, kerosene lamps cast a thick yellow
radiance over the long counters, the variously laden shelves. The store
was filled with the odor of coffee, the penetrating smell of print
m