“Did they eat it?” demanded Wesley.

“They just chanked into it,” replied Billy graphically.  “They pushed, and squealed, and fought over it.  You couldn’t blame ’em!  It was the best stuff I ever tasted!”

“Margaret,” said Wesley, “run ’phone that doctor he won’t be needed.  Billy, take Elnora and Mr. Ammon to see the bugs.  Katharine, suppose you help me a minute.”

Wesley took the clothes basket from the back porch and started in the direction of the cellar.  Margaret returned from the telephone.

“I just caught him,” she said.  “There’s that much saved.  Why Wesley, what are you going to do?”

“You go sit on the front porch a little while,” said Wesley.  “You will feel better if you don’t see this.”

“Wesley,” cried Margaret aghast.  “Some of that wine is ten years old.  There are days and days of hard work in it, and I couldn’t say how much sugar.  Dr. Ammon keeps people alive with it when nothing else will stay on their stomachs.”

“Let ’em die, then!” said Wesley.  “You heard the boy, didn’t you?”

“It’s a cold process.  There’s not a particle of fermentation about it.”

“Not a particle of fermentation!  Great day, Margaret!  Look at those pigs!”

Margaret took a long look.  “Leave me a few bottles for mince-meat,” she wavered.

“Not a smell for any use on this earth!  You heard the boy!  He shan’t say, when he grows to manhood, that he learned to like it here!”

Wesley threw away the wine, Mrs. Comstock cheerfully assisting.  Then they walked to the woods to see and learn about the wonderful insects.  The day ended with a big supper at Sintons’, and then they went to the Comstock cabin for a concert.  Elnora played beautifully that night.  When the Sintons left she kissed Billy with particular tenderness.  She was so moved that she was kinder to Philip than she had intended to be, and Elnora as an antidote to a disappointed lover was a decided success in any mood.

However strong the attractions of Edith Carr had been, once the bond was finally broken, Philip Ammon could not help realizing that Elnora was the superior woman, and that he was fortunate to have escaped, when he regarded his ties strongest.  Every day, while working with Elnora, he saw more to admire.  He grew very thankful that he was free to try to win her, and impatient to justify himself to her.

Elnora did not evince the slightest haste to hear what he had to say, but waited the week she had set, in spite of Philip’s hourly manifest impatience.  When she did consent to listen, Philip felt before he had talked five minutes, that she was putting herself in Edith Carr’s place, and judging him from what the other girl’s standpoint would be.  That was so disconcerting, he did not plead his cause nearly so well as he had hoped, for when he ceased Elnora sat in silence.

“You are my judge,” he said at last.  “What is your verdict?”