h.

Lyman unhitched the horse and led him down a glade to feed him in the
cool shadow of a chestnut tree, and while he was spreading the oats
Warren came running down to him.

"Lyman, she's here," he said. "It's a fact and I'll swear it. Yes,
sir, she's here, and I was never more surprised in my life."

"I am not surprised," Lyman replied. "I expected her."

"The deuce you did! Then you know her."

"Know her. Of course I do."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you? What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean that you ought to have told me. What's her name?"

"Look here, have you gone crazy?"

"No, but you have. How the deuce did you know she would be here? All
right, but she won't get away from me so easy this time. I see the
old man's with her, and the idea of supposing that he could have been
her husband is preposterous."

"Oh," Lyman laughed, "I thought you meant my--meant Eva McElwin."

"No, I mean the girl that flavored the apple. Come up and I'll
introduce you to her."

"But have you met her?"

"I met her in the path a minute ago."

"But have you been introduced to her?"

"No, but I'll fix that all right. Come on."

Lyman was laughing, but Warren was deeply in earnest. They went up the
hill toward the church. Everybody was outside in the shade, the
preacher not having arrived. "There she is," Warren whispered; "that
girl standing with that man near the door. Stand here till I go and
fix it."

He hastened toward the man, and not the slightest abashed, walked up
to him. He said something; the man spoke to the girl and Lyman saw
Warren lift his hat. They stood for a few moments, talking, and then
they came out toward Lyman, the girl blushing and hanging back, and
Warren gently urging her.

"Miss Nancy Pitt," said Warren, approaching, "I have the honor to
present Mr. Lyman, one of the best writers in the country, although he
is not cut out for a newspaper man."

Miss Pitt blushed and smiled and said that she was glad to meet him.
She looked like a spirit of the woods, on a day when red buds and
white blossoms are mingled; she was not handsome, but striking, fresh,
and with an early morning brightness in her eyes; she was an untrained
athlete of the farm, ready to put a back-log into the yawning
fire-place or to choke a greedy calf off from its mother. She had no
manners and was shy; and, without knowing how to play with a man's
affection, was coy. Lyman looked into her eyes and thought of the
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