“Wa-al—­they was about the same heft,” said Bogle, “and if this hain’t her, it ought to be.  I kin b’lieve it, can’t I?  Got a right to b’lieve it, hain’t I?  Good fer the town to b’lieve it, hain’t it?”

“Calc’late ’tis.”

“All right, then.  I aim to keep on b’lievin’ it.”

Next day Homer Locker abandoned his work and with the utmost brazenness hired a rig at the livery and drove to the hotel.  A group of notables assembled upon the bridge to watch the event.  They saw him emerge from the inn with Yvette, help her into the buggy with great solicitude, and drive away.  They did not return until supper time was long past.

“I’m determined to git this settled one way or t’other,” said Homer, after a long pause.  “Be you goin’ to marry me?”

“Why do you want me?” Yvette asked, fixing her eyes on his face.  “Is it just because you think I’m pretty?”

He considered.  It was a hard question for a young man not adept in the use of words to answer. “’Tain’t jest that,” he said, finally.  “I like you bein’ perty.  But it’s somethin’ else.  I hain’t able to explain it, exceptin’ that I want you more’n I ever wanted anythin’ in my life.”

“Maybe, when I tell you about myself, you won’t want me at all.”

He paused again, while she studied his face anxiously.

“I dunno....  I—.  Tell ye what.  I want you like I know you.  I’m satisfied.  I don’t want you to tell me nothin’.  I don’t want to know nothin’.”  He turned and looked with clumsy gravity into her eyes, which did not waver.  “Besides,” he said, “I don’t believe you got anythin’ discreditable to tell.”

“I want to tell you.”

“I don’t want to hear,” he said, simply.  “I’d rather take you, jest trustin’ you and knowin’ in my heart that you’re good.  Somehow I know it.”

She bit her lip, her eyes were moist, and she sat very still for a long time; then she said, softly:  “I didn’t know men like that lived....  I didn’t know.”

Then again, after the passage of minutes:  “I was going to marry you, Homer, just for a home and a good man and to get peace....  But I sha’n’t do it now.  I can’t come between you and all your folks—­and they wouldn’t have me.”

“You’re more to me than everybody else throwed together.”

“No, Homer.  Before I didn’t think I cared....  I do care, Homer.  I—­I love you.  I don’t mind saying it now....  I’m going away in the morning.”

It was a point they argued all the day, but Yvette was not to be moved, and Homer was in despair.  As he drove into the village that evening, glum and unhappy, Yvette said:  “Stop at Mr. Baines’s, please, Homer.  I want to speak to him.”

Scattergood was in his accustomed place before his store, shoes on the piazza beside him, and his feet, guiltless of socks, reveling in their liberty.

“Mr. Baines,” said Yvette, “I’ve made up my mind to go away to-morrow.”