't ain't mine?"

"That thar money in that box he buried ain't _his'n_, nuther!" he
argued.

There was an inscrutable look in her clear eyes. She had risen, and was
standing in the moonlight opposite him. The shadows of the vines falling
over her straight skirt left her face and hair the fairer in the silver
glister.

"'Pears like ter me," he broke the silence with his plaintive cadence,
"ez ye ought ter hev tole me. I ain't keerin' ter know 'ceptin' ye hev
shet me out. It hev hurt my feelin's powerful ter be treated that-a-way.
Tell me now--or lemme go forever!"

She was suddenly trembling from head to foot. Pale she was always. Now
she was ghastly. "Rufe Kinnicutt," she said with the solemnity of
an adjuration, "ye don't keer fur sech ez this, fur _nuthin_'. An' I
promised!"

He noted her agitation. He felt the clue in his grasp. He sought to
wield his power, "Choose a-twixt us! Choose a-twixt the promise ye made
ter that man--or the word ye deny ter me! An' when I'm gone--I'm gone!"

She stood seemingly irresolute.

"It's nuthin' ter me," he protested once more. "I kin keep it an' gyard
it ez well ez you uns. But I won't be shet out, an' doubted, an' denied,
like ez ef _I_ wan't fitten ter be trested with nuthin'!"

He stood a moment longer, watching her trembling agitation, and feeling
that tingling exasperation that might have preceded a blow.

"I'm goin'," he threatened.

As she still stood motionless he turned away as if to make good his
threat. He heard a vague stir among the leaves, and turning back he saw
that the porch was vacant.

He had overshot the mark. In swift repentance he retraced his steps. He
called her name. No response save the echoes. The house dogs, roused to
a fresh excitement, were gathering about the door, barking in affected
alarm, save one, to whom Kinnicutt was a stranger, that came, silent
and ominous, dragging a block and chain from under the house. Kinnicutt
heard the sudden drowsy plaints of the old rheumatic grandmother, as she
was rudely awakened by the clamors, and presently a heavy footfall smote
upon the puncheons that floored the porch. Old Byars himself, with his
cracked voice and long gray hair, had left his pipe on the mantel-piece
to investigate the disorder without.

"Hy're Rufe!" he swung uneasily posed on his crutch stick in the
doorway, and mechanically shaded his eyes with one hand, as from the
sun, as he gazed dubiously at the young man, "hain't ye in an'