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"Yes, a beautiful story is a thing Ned Ferry loves with a positive passion."

"Yes, bub," I replied. The two men laughed so explosively that my horse lifted his head austerely.

Well, he thought a girl might be prettiest at eighteen and handsomest much later. And again I said to myself, "Charlotte Oliver!" But when I looked searchingly into his eyes their manly sweetness so abashed me that I dropped my glance and felt him looking at me. I remembered my fable and flinched. "Isn't your name--" I cried, and choked, and when I would have said Ferry, another word slipped out instead. He did not hear it plainly:

"No," she laughed, "and if I go back with you to Wiggins--to the little white cottage, you know, opposite the blacksmith's shop,--you'll give me what you've got for me, won't you?" She dropped her head to one side and a mocking-bird chuckle rippled in her throat.

"Cruel to you?" I took her hand from my arm and held it.

"Oh, no, no! I cannot let you!" She clutched the hand she had been stroking.

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