perception of right and justice. If you claim for me
what you have said, you do not believe it, Wilmur Benton; you know in
your soul you speak falsely."

"Why, Emily," he said, "you are imputing to me what you are unwilling
to bear yourself; do you realize it?"

"I think I do," I replied, "and further proof is not needed to convince
me."

"Really, this is a strange state of affairs, but (in a conciliatory
tone), perhaps I spoke too impulsively, I cannot bear your anger;
forgive me, Emily."

"Well," I answered merely.

"Can you forget it all?" he said.

"I will see," I replied, and just then I saw Halbert coming over the
hill, and I was relieved from further annoyance. I cannot say just how
this affected me. I felt in one sense free, but still a sense of
heaviness oppressed me and all was not clear. My mental horizon was
clouded, and I could see no signs of the clouds drifting entirely away,
but on one point I was determined. I would give no signs of even pity
for Mr. Benton, even should I feel it as through days I looked over my
words and thoughts. He should not have even this to hold in his hand as
a weapon against me. I would say nothing to Hal, for Louis would come,
and in the fall, the year of his waiting would be at an end. He would
tell me again of his great love, and I would yield to him that which was
his. Oh, Louis, my confidence in your blessed heart grows daily
stronger!

While these thoughts were running through my mind, Matthias' voice was
heard, a moment more and he was saying:

"Guess he's done gone sure dis time; he drink an fiddle, an fiddle an'
drink; and nex' ting I knowed he's done dar at the feet of dem stars all
in a heap by hisself."

"Who's that?" I cried.

"Plint, Miss. He's done gone, sure, an' I came roun' to get some help
'bout totin' him up stars. Can't do nothin', an' Mis' Smith she's jes
gone scart into somebody else. She don't 'pear to know nuthin', an' when
I say help me, she jest stan' an' holler like mad."

"I'll go over," said Aunt Hildy, wiping her hands, and turning for sun
bonnet and cape.

"I'll go," said Hal.

"Me, too," cried Ben, and off they started.

Poor Plint was gone, surely enough; dead, "a victim to strong drink and
fiddlin'," Aunt Hildy said. His funeral was from the church, for we all
respected Aunt Peg and pitied Plint, and Mr. Davis only spoke of God's
great mercy and his tenderness to all his flock; never putting a word of
endless torment in it.