“I am in ignorance, Miss Grace,” I said to her.

“Fie!  You know very well what I mean—­about yesterday.”

“Oh, that,” said I, and went rather red of the face, for I thought she meant my salutation at the gate.

She, redder now than myself, needed no explanation as to what I meant.  “No, not that,” she began hastily, “that was not noble, but vile of you!  I mean at the tavern, where you took my part—­”

So then I saw that word in some way had come to her of the little brawl between Harry Singleton and myself.  Then indeed my face grew scarlet.  “It was nothing,” said I, “simply nothing at all.”  But to this she would not listen.

“To protect an absent woman is always manly,” she said. (It was the women of the South who set us all foolish about chivalry.) “I thank you for caring for my name.”

Now, I should have grown warmer in the face and in the heart at this, but the very truth is that I felt a chill come over me, as though I were getting deeper into cold water.  I guessed her mind.  Now, how was I, who had kissed her at the lane, who had defended her when absent, who called now in state with his father and mother in the family carriage—­how was I to say I was not of the same mind as she?  I pulled the ears of the hunting dog until he yelped in pain.

We were deep in the great Sheraton orchard, across the fence which divided it from the house grounds, so far that only the great chimney of the house showed above the trees.  The shade was gracious, the fragrance alluring.  At a distance the voices of singing negroes came to us.  Presently we came to a fallen apple tree, a giant perhaps planted there generations before.  We seated ourselves here, and we should have been happy, for we were young, and all about us was sweet and comforting.  Yet, on my honor, I would rather at that moment have been talking to my mother than to Grace Sheraton.  I did not know why.

For some time we sat there, pulling at apple blossoms and grass stems, and talking of many things quite beside the real question; but at last there came an interruption.  I heard the sound of a low, rumbling bellow approaching through the trees, and as I looked up I saw, coming forward with a certain confidence, Sir Jonas, the red Sheraton bull, with a ring in his nose, and in his carriage an intense haughtiness for one so young.  I knew all about Sir Jonas, for we had bred him on our farm, and sold him not long since to the Sheratons.

Miss Grace gathered her skirts for instant flight, but I quickly pushed her down.  I knew the nature of Sir Jonas very well, and saw that flight would mean disaster long before she could reach any place of safety.

“Keep quiet,” I said to her in a low voice.  “Don’t make any quick motions, or he’ll charge.  Come with me, slowly now.”