And all the message the disinterested and benevolent Betsey bore to Julia was to tell her exultingly that Gus had twice walked home with her.  And they had had such a nice time!  And Julia, girl that she was, declared indignantly that she didn’t care whom he went with; though she did care, and her eyes and face said so.  Thus the tongue sometimes lies—­or seems to lie—­when the whole person is telling the truth.  The only excuse for the tongue is that it will not be believed, and it knows that it will not be believed!  It only speaks diplomatically, maybe.  But diplomatic talking is bad.  Better the truth.  If Jule had known that her words would be reported to August, she would have bitten out her tongue rather than to have let it utter words that were only the cry of her wounded pride.  Of course Betsey met August in the road the next morning, in a quiet hollow by the brook, and told him, sympathizingly, almost affectionately, that she had begun to talk to Julia about him, and that Jule had said she didn’t care.  So while Julia uttered a lie she spoke the truth, and while.  Betsey uttered the truth she spoke a lie, willful, malicious, and wicked.

Now, in the mean time, Julia, on her side, had tried to open communication through the only channel that offered itself.  She did not attempt it by means of Betsey, because, being a woman, she felt instinctively that Betsey was not to be trusted.  But there was only one other to whom she was allowed to speak, except under a supervision as complete as it was unacknowledged.  That other was Mr. Humphreys.  He evinced a constant interest in her affairs, avowing that he always did have a romantic desire to effect the union of suitable people, even though it might pain his heart a little to see another more fortunate than himself.  Julia had given up all hope of communicating by letter, and she could not bring herself to make any confessions to a man who had such a smile and such eyes, but to a generous proposition of Mr. Humphreys that he should see August and open the way for any communication between them, she consented, scarcely concealing her eagerness.

August was not in a mood to receive Humphreys kindly.  He hated him by intuition, and a liking for him had not been begotten by Betsey’s assurances that he was making headway with Julia.  August was riding astride a bag of corn on his way to mill, when Humphreys, taking a walk, met him.

“A pleasant day, Mr. Wehle!”

“Yes,” said August, with a courtesy as mechanical as Humphreys’s smile.

The singing-master was rather pleased than otherwise to see that August disliked him.  It suited his purpose, just now to gall Wehle into saying what he would not otherwise have said.

“I hear you are in trouble,” he proceeded.

“How so?”

“Oh!  I hear that Mrs. Anderson doesn’t like Dutchmen.”  The smile now seemed to have something of a sneer in it.

“I don’t know that that is your affair,” said August, all his suspicions, by a sort of “resolution of force,” changing into anger.