The situation of our young friend, therefore, became a most peculiar one.  He had been given an important preliminary advantage, if he chose to aspire to the love of the sweet one at his side; but he thought hard, and did not lose his self-poise or sense of honor.

“It is natural that she should despise his poltroonery and feel grateful to me,” was his thought; “but, after all, it isn’t likely she holds any emotion other than simple gratitude.  It would be base in me to presume upon it.  I will not do so.”

The drive was comparatively a short one to the handsome residence of the Warmores.  As Tom guided the mettlesome pony through the open gate and up the winding roadway to the front of the porch, Mrs. Warmore came out pale with fright.  She had just learned of the accident from G. Field Catherwood, who had limped up the steps with a rambling tale of how he had been flung headlong from the vehicle at the moment he was about to seize Jennie and lift her free.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the mother, when she saw her daughter unharmed; “I was sure you were killed.”

Catherwood hobbled forward from behind the lady, leaning on his cane.

“I say ‘amen’ to those sentiments,” he added, too much flustered just then to use his affected style of speech.  “O Jennie, my heart was broken when I was hurled out before I could save you.  Allow me.”

“You had better look after your own safety,” she said, refusing his help, as she stepped lightly from the cart.  “Jack might start again.  Mother, Mr. Gordon here saved my life.”

At this moment the groom appeared, and the blushing Tom turned the horse over to him, and, pretending he had not heard the words of Jennie, lifted his hat.

“It has come out all right; I bid you good-evening.”

Catherwood quickly rallied from the snub of the lady.  He slipped his fingers in his vest-pocket and drew out a bill, which he handed to Tom.

“What’s that for?” asked the wondering youth, taking the crumpled paper.

“Aw—­that’s all right, my deah fellow—­you earned it—­dooced clevah in you”—­

Tom Gordon compressed the paper into a small wad, and placing it between his thumb and forefinger, as though it were a marble, shot it against the eyeglasses of the amazed dude.

“That’s my opinion of you,” he said, turning about and walking off, before the agitated Mrs. Warmore could thank him.

“I suppose I’ve done it,” he mused, when in the highway and walking toward Farmer Pitcairn’s.  “Catherwood never did like me and now he hates me.  If Miss Jennie keeps up her course toward him, he will hate me more than ever.  He will not rest till he gets me out of the store.  Well, let him go ahead.  I am not an old man yet, and the world is broad and big.”

He was about to sit down to the evening meal, when a servant of Mr. Warmore arrived with a note, requesting the pleasure of Mr. Gordon’s company to dinner that evening.  It was not a simple formal invitation, but was so urgent that the young man could not refuse.  He returned word through the servant that he accepted with pleasure the invitation and would be soon there.