Young Murchison came out of the door, cleared the piazza in two strides without seeming aware of my presence, and went off down the lane at a furious pace.  A few moments later Mabel began playing the piano loudly, with a touch that indicated anger and pride and independence and a dash of exultation, as though she were really glad that she had driven away forever the young man whom the day before she had loved with all the ardor of a first passion.

I hoped that time might heal the breach and bring the two young people together again.  I told my wife what I had overheard.  In return she gave me Mabel’s version of the affair.

“I do not see how it can ever be settled,” my wife said.  “It is something more than a mere lovers’ quarrel.  It began, it is true, because she found fault with him for going to church with that hateful Branson girl.  But before it ended there were things said that no woman of any spirit could stand.  I am afraid it is all over between them.”

I was sorry to hear this.  In spite of the very firm attitude taken by my wife and her sister, I still hoped that the quarrel would be made up within a day or two.  Nevertheless, when a week had passed with no word from young Murchison, and with no sign of relenting on Mabel’s part, I began to think myself mistaken.

One pleasant afternoon, about ten days after the rupture, old Julius drove the rockaway up to the piazza, and my wife, Mabel, and I took our seats for a drive to a neighbor’s vineyard, over on the Lumberton plank-road.

“Which way shall we go,” I asked,—­“the short road or the long one?”

“I guess we had better take the short road,” answered my wife.  “We will get there sooner.”

“It’s a mighty fine dribe roun’ by de big road, Mis’ Annie,” observed Julius, “en it doan take much longer to git dere.”

“No,” said my wife, “I think we will go by the short road.  There is a bay-tree in blossom near the mineral spring, and I wish to get some of the flowers.”

“I ’spec’s you ‘d fin’ some bay-trees ’long de big road, ma’m,” suggested Julius.

“But I know about the flowers on the short road, and they are the ones I want.”

We drove down the lane to the highway, and soon struck into the short road leading past the mineral spring.  Our route lay partly through a swamp, and on each side the dark, umbrageous foliage, unbroken by any clearing, lent to the road solemnity, and to the air a refreshing coolness.  About half a mile from the house, and about half-way to the mineral spring, we stopped at the tree of which my wife had spoken, and reaching up to the low-hanging boughs, I gathered a dozen of the fragrant white flowers.  When I resumed my seat in the rockaway, Julius started the mare.  She went on for a few rods, until we had reached the edge of a branch crossing the road, when she stopped short.

“Why did you stop, Julius?” I asked.

“I did n’, suh,” he replied. “‘T wuz de mare stop’.  G’ ’long dere, Lucy!  Wat you mean by dis foolis’ness?”