eeks, however, it did not appear that Mr. Langworthy
was in any hurry to act upon the advice of his former wife. His
relations to Mary Ellen Budd were characterized by his usual tolerance
to his employees' failings,--which in Mary Ellen's case included many
"breakages,"--but were not marked by the invasion of any warmer feeling,
or a desire for confidences. The only perceptible divergence from his
regular habits was a disposition to be on the veranda at the arrival of
the stage-coach, and when his duties permitted this, a cautious survey
of his female guests at the beginning of dinner. This probably led to
his more or less ignoring any peculiarities in his masculine patrons or
their claims to his personal attention. Particularly so, in the case of
a red-bearded man, in a long linen duster, both heavily freighted with
the red dust of the stage road, which seemed to have invaded his very
eyes as he watched the landlord closely. Towards the close of the
dinner, when Abner, accompanied by a negro waiter after his usual
custom, passed down each side of the long table, collecting payment for
the meal, the stranger looked up. "You air the landlord of this hotel, I
reckon?"

"I am," said Abner tolerantly.

"I'd like a word or two with ye."

But Abner had been obliged to have a formula for such occasions. "Ye'll
pay for yer dinner first," he said submissively, but firmly, "and make
yer remarks agin the food arter."

The stranger flushed quickly, and his eye took an additional shade of
red, but meeting Abner's serious gray ones, he contented himself with
ostentatiously taking out a handful of gold and silver and paying his
bill. Abner passed on, but after dinner was over he found the stranger
in the hall.

"Ye pulled me up rather short in thar," said the man gloomily, "but it's
just as well, as the talk I was wantin' with ye was kinder betwixt and
between ourselves, and not hotel business. My name's Byers, and my wife
let on she met ye down here."

For the first time it struck Abner as incongruous that another man
should call Rosalie "his wife," although the fact of her remarriage
had been made sufficiently plain to him. He accepted it as he would an
earthquake, or any other dislocation, with his usual tolerant smile, and
held out his hand.

Mr. Byers took it, seemingly mollified, and yet inwardly
disturbed,--more even than was customary in Abner's guests after dinner.

"Have a drink with me," he suggested, although it