chair. Of late he had become interested in Wash
Sanders, and had resented the neighbors' loss of confidence in him.

"Well, you might bring 'em if it ain't too much trouble, but I don't
believe I could eat 'em. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."

He lifted his pale hand, and with his long finger nail scratched his
chin.

"What's the doctor's opinion?" Tom asked, not knowing what else to say
and feeling that at that moment some expression was justly demanded of
him.

"The doctors don't say anything now; they've given me up. From the first
they saw that I was a dead man. Last doctor that gave me medicine was a
fellow from over here at Gum Springs, and I wish I may die dead if he
didn't come in one of finishin' me right there on the spot."

There came a tap at a window that opened out upon the verandah, and the
young fellow, looking around, saw the girl sitting in the "best room."
She tried to put on the appearance of having accidentally attracted his
attention. He moved his chair closer to the window.

"How did you know I was in here?" she asked, looping back the white
curtain.

"I can always tell where you are without looking."

"Are you goin' to make fun of me again?"

"If I could even eat enough to keep a chicken alive I think I'd feel
better," said Wash Sanders, looking far off down the road.

"I never did make fun of you," the young fellow declared in a whisper,
leaning close to the window. "And I wish you wouldn't keep on saying
that I do."

"I won't say it any more if you don't want me to."

"But I can't eat and can't sleep, and that settles it," said Wash
Sanders.

"Of course I don't want you to say it. It makes me think that you are
looking for an excuse not to like me."

"Would you care very much if I didn't like you?"

"If I had taken another slug of that Gum Springs doctor's stuff I
couldn't have lived ten minutes longer," said Wash Sanders.

And thus they talked until the sun was sinking into the tops of the
trees, far down below the bend in the river.

CHAPTER VII.

At the Major's house the argument was still warm and vigorous. But the
evening was come, and the bell-cow, home from her browsing, was ringing
for admittance at the barn-yard gate. The priest arose to go. At that
moment there was a heavy step at the end of the porch, the slow and
ponderous tread of Jim Taylor. He strode in the shadow and in the
gathering dusk recognition of him would not have been easy, but