llowed him out through the kitchen.

"Gone to try the moonlight," remarked the little gossip at Westerfelt's
side, with a knowing smile.

"All promenade!" shouted the fiddler, the dance being over. The
couples went outside. They passed Wambush and Harriet on the porch,
leaning against the banisters in the moonlight. Her head was covered
with her shawl, and her companion was very near her.

"Never mind; we won't bother you," called out Sarah Wambush, who, with
Nelson Baker, led the promenaders. "We're goin' down the walk; you
needn't run off on our account."

All the others laughed, and Sarah, thinking she had said something
bright, added: "Harriet's got a bad cold, an' Buddy's sprained his
foot; they're takin' the'r medicine."

This evoked another laugh, but neither Wambush nor his companion heeded
it. Westerfelt observed that they turned their backs to the
promenaders and seemed to be talking earnestly.

"It's cool out here," said Westerfelt's partner as they were returning
from the walk under the arbor of grape-vines. "They are all goin'
inside."

At about twelve o'clock the guests began to leave. Harriet Floyd,
followed by Wambush, came in hurriedly after most of the others had
gone. Westerfelt was near Mrs. Bradley when she came to say
good-night. He heard her say she had enjoyed herself very much, but
she spoke hurriedly, as if she did not want to be the last to leave.
Westerfelt watched them go through the gate, but he turned away when
Wambush put his arm round her waist and lifted her lightly into his
buggy.

He was sure he would never like the fellow.

Just before Westerfelt went to bed, Bradley looked into his room.

"I 'lowed I'd better take a peep at that stove o' yore'n, an' see that
thar ain't any danger o' fire while we are asleep," he said. "How'd
you make out to-night?"

"First rate."

"I 'lowed you wus gittin' on well enough--talked to most all the gals,
I reckon."

"All but one, I think--that Miss Floyd."

"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's
as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket."

Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots.

"What sort of a man is he, Luke?"

"Bad--bad; no wuss in seven States."

"Fighting man?"

"Yes; an' whiskey an' moonshinin' an' what not; ain't but one good
p'int in 'im, an' that hain't wuth much in time o' peace. I reckon ef
yo're through with it, I'd better take yo