You can't, except just don't worry when we get to scrapping." His eyes
smiled down at her with their old, quizzical humor, which she had not
seen in them for some days. "I foresee that we're due to scrap a good
deal of the time," he predicted. "We're both pretty peppery. But we'll
make out, all right. You didn't"--he blushed consciously--"you didn't
think I was going to--to fall dead in love--"

"Didn't I?" Phoebe laughed at him openly. "I'd have been more surprised
if you hadn't. Why, my grief! I know enough about human nature, I hope,
to expect--"

"Churning?" The voice of Baumberger purred down to them. There he stood
bulkily at the top of the steps, good-naturedly regarding them. "Mr.
Hart and I are goin' to take a ride up to the station--gotta send a
telegram or two about this little affair"--he made a motion with his
pipe toward the orchard--"and I just thought a good, cold drink of
buttermilk before we start wouldn't be bad." His glance just grazed Good
Indian, and passed him over as being of no consequence.

"If you don't happen to have any handy, it don't matter in the least,"
he added, and turned to go when Phoebe shook her head. "Anything we can
get for yuh at the store, Mrs. Hart? Won't be any trouble at all--Oh,
all right." He had caught another shake of the head.

"We may be gone till supper-time," he explained further, "and I trust
to your good sense, Mrs. Hart, to see that the boys keep away from those
fellows down there." The pipe, and also his head, again indicated the
men in the orchard. "We don't want any ill feeling stirred up, you
understand, and so they'd better just keep away from 'em. They're good
boys--they'll do as you say." He leered at her ingratiatingly, shot a
keen, questioning look at Good Indian, and went his lumbering way.

Grant went to the top of the steps, and made sure that he had really
gone before he said a word. Even then he sat down upon the edge of the
stairway with his back to the pond, so that he could keep watch of the
approaches to the spring-house; he had become an exceedingly suspicious
young man overnight.

"Mother Hart, on the square, what do you think of Baumberger?" he asked
her abruptly. "Come and sit down; I want to talk with you--if I can
without having the whole of Idaho listening."

"Oh, Grant--I don't know what to think! He seems all right, and I don't
know why he shouldn't be just what he seems; he's got the name of
being a good lawyer. But something--we