urany Howes, who's
been sick so long. She ain't come home, and the old gentleman's frettin'
about her walkin' down from there alone so late. I told him I cal'lated
you'd just as soon harness Jess and drive up and get her. You talk with
him yourself, Al."

Albert did and, after assuring the nervous clergyman that he would see
that his daughter reached home safely, put on his hat and went out to
the barn. Jessamine was asleep in her stall. As he was about to lead
her out he suddenly remembered that one of the traces had broken that
morning and Captain Zelotes had left it at the harness-maker's to be
mended. It was there yet. The captain had forgotten the fact, and so had
he. That settled the idea of using Jessamine and the buggy. Never mind,
it was a beautiful night and the walk was but little over a mile.

When he reached the tiny story-and-a-half Howes cottage, sitting back
from the road upon the knoll amid the tangle of silverleaf sprouts, it
was Helen herself who opened the door. She was surprised to see him, and
when he explained his errand she was a little vexed.

"The idea of Father's worrying," she said. "Such a wonderful night as
this, bright moonlight, and in South Harniss, too. Nothing ever happens
to people in South Harniss. I will be ready in a minute or two. Mrs.
Howes' niece is here now and will stay with her until to-morrow. Then
her sister is coming to stay a month. As soon as I get her medicine
ready we can go."

The door of the tiny bedroom adjoining the sitting room was open, and
Albert, sitting upon the lounge with the faded likeness of a pink
dog printed on the plush cover, could hear the querulous voice of the
invalid within. The widow Howes was deaf and, as Laban Keeler described
it, "always hollered loud enough to make herself hear" when she spoke.
Helen was moving quietly about the sick room and speaking in a low tone.
Albert could not hear what she said, but he could hear Lurania.

"You're a wonder, that's what you be," declared the latter, "and I told
your pa so last time he was here. 'She's a saint,' says I, 'if ever
there was one on this earth. She's the nicest, smartest, best-lookin'
girl in THIS town and . . .' eh?"

There had been a murmur, presumably of remonstrance, from Helen.

"Eh?"

Another murmur.

"EH? WHO'D you say was there?"

A third murmur.

"WHO? . . . Oh, that Speranzy one? Lote Snow's grandson? The one they
used to call the Portygee? . . . Eh? Well, all right, I