“No!” she replied, in a voice barely to be heard.  “It must never happen again.  We can’t meet here.”

They were walking side by side now toward the meadow-path.  As they reached it he paused.

“Come to the back of the pasture—­to-morrow!—­at four o’clock!” he said, tentatively, recklessly.

Daphne did not answer as she moved away from him along the path homeward.

“Will you come?” he called out to her.

She turned and shook her head.  Whatever her own new plans may have become, she was once more happy and laughing.

“Come, Daphne!”

She walked several paces further and turned and shook her head again.

“Come!” he pleaded.

She laughed at him.

He wheeled round to his mare grazing near.  As he put his foot into the stirrup, he looked again:  she was standing in the same place, laughing still.

“You go,” she cried, waving him good-by.  “There’ll not be a soul to disturb you!  To-morrow—­at four o’clock!”

“Will you be there?” he said.

“Will you?” she answered.

“I’ll be there to-morrow,” he said, “and every other day till you come.”

By permission of the Macmillan Company, Publishers.

OLD KING SOLOMON’S CORONATION

From ‘Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances’ Copyright 1891, by Harper and Brothers.

He stood on the topmost of the court-house steps, and for a moment looked down on the crowd with the usual air of official severity.

“Gentlemen,” he then cried out sharply, “by an ordah of the cou’t I now offah this man at public sale to the highes’ biddah.  He is able-bodied but lazy, without visible property or means of suppoht, an’ of dissolute habits.  He is therefoh adjudged guilty of high misdemeanahs, an’ is to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth.  How much, then, am I offahed foh the vagrant?  How much am I offahed foh ole King Sol’mon?”

Nothing was offered for old King Solomon.  The spectators formed themselves into a ring around the big vagrant, and settled down to enjoy the performance.

“Staht ’im, somebody.”

Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the circle.

The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed severity, but catching the eye of an acquaintance on the outskirts, he exchanged a lightning wink of secret appreciation.  Then he lifted off his tight beaver hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of perspiration which rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed a degree to his theme.

“Come, gentlemen,” he said more suasively, “it’s too hot to stan’ heah all day.  Make me an offah!  You all know ole King Sol’mon; don’t wait to be interduced.  How much, then, to staht ’im?  Say fifty dollahs!  Twenty-five!  Fifteen!  Ten!  Why, gentlemen!  Not ten dollahs?  Remembah, this is the Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky—­the land of Boone an’ Kenton, the home of Henry Clay!” he added, in an oratorical crescendo.