She looked up into his pleasant countenance; he might have been handsome years ago.

“Well,” she assented, walking on.

“You don’t know where I could get a girl to work for me,” he asked in a cracked voice.

“No sir.”

“And you don’t want a bottle of my celebrated mixture to teach you how to discern between the true and the false!  Rub your head with it every morning, and you’ll never believe a lie.”

“I don’t now,” replied Marjorie, taking very quick steps.

“How do you know you don’t?” he asked keeping step with her.  “Tell me how to tell the difference between a lie and the truth!”

“Rub your head with your mixture,” she said, laughing.

But he was not disconcerted, he returned in a simple tone.

“Oh, that’s my receipt, I want yours.  Yours may be better than mine.”

“I think it is.”

“Tell me, then, quick.”

“Don’t you want to go into that house and sell something?” she asked, pointing to the house ahead of them.

“When I get there; and you must wait for me, outside, or I won’t go in.”

“Don’t you know the way yourself?” she evaded.

“I’ve travelled it ever since the year 1, I ought to know it,” he replied, contemptuously.  “But you’ve got to wait for me.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Marjorie, frightened at his insistence; then a quick thought came to her:  “Perhaps they will keep you all night.”

“They won’t, they always refuse.  They don’t believe I’m an angel unawares.  That’s in the Bible.”

“I’d ask them, if I were you,” said Marjorie, in a coaxing, tremulous voice; “they’re nice, kind people.”

“Well, then, I will,” he said, hurrying on.

She lingered, breathing more freely; he would certainly overtake her again before she could reach the next house and if she did not agree with everything he proposed he might become angry with her.  Oh, dear! how queerly this day was ending!  She did not really want anything to happen; the quiet days were the happiest, after all.  He strode on before her, turning once in a while, to learn if she were following.

“That’s right; walk slow,” he shouted in a conciliatory voice.

By the wayside, near the fence opposite the gate he was to enter, there grew a dense clump of blackberry vines; as the gate swung behind him, she ran towards the fence, and, while he stood with his back towards her in the path talking excitedly to a little boy who had come to meet him, she squeezed herself in between the vines and the fence, bending her head and gathering the skirt of her dress in both hands.

He became angry as he talked, vociferating and gesticulating; every instant she the more congratulated herself upon her escape; some of the girls were afraid of him, but she had always been too sorry for him to be much afraid; still, she would prefer to hide and keep hidden half the night rather than be compelled to walk a long, lonely mile with him.  Her father or mother had always been within the sound of her voice when he had talked with her; she had never before had to be a protection to herself.  Peering through the leaves, she watched him, as he turned again towards the gate, with her heart beating altogether too rapidly for comfort:  he opened the gate, strode out to the road and stood looking back.