She performed her mission at the post-office, and was mentally weighing the probabilities of Nicholas having finished work for the day, when, in passing along the main street, she saw him come to the door of his office with a round, rosy girl, whom she recognised as Bessie Pollard.

She had intended to take him out with her, but as she caught sight of his visitor she gave them both a condescending nod and ordered Sampson to drive on.  She felt vaguely offended and sharply irritated with herself for permitting it.  Her annoyance was not allayed by the fact that Amos Burr stopped her in the road to inform her that his wife was fattening a brood of turkeys which she would like to deliver into the hands of Miss Chris. As he stood before her, hairy, ominous, uncouth, she realised for the first time the full horror of the fact that he was father to the man she loved.  Hitherto she had but dimly grasped the idea.  Nicholas had been associated in her thoughts with the judge and her earlier school days; and she had conceived of his poverty and his people only in the heroic measures that related to his emancipation from them.  Now she felt that had she, in the beginning, seen him side by side with his father, she could not have loved him.  She flinched from Amos Burr’s shaggy exterior and drew back haughtily.

“I have nothing to do with the housekeeping,” she said.  “You may ask Aunt Chris.”

He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the dust and fingered the torn brim of his hat.

“I wish you’d jest speak to Miss Chris about ’em,” he returned, “an’ send me word by Nick.”  He gave an awkward lurch on his feet.

The colour flamed in Eugenia’s face.

“Aunt Chris will send for the turkeys,” she said hurriedly.  “Drive on, Sampson.”

She sat splendidly erect, but the autumn landscape was blurred by a sudden gush of tears.

An hour later she remembered that she had promised to let Nicholas join her in the pasture, and she left the house with the grievance still at her heart.

When she saw him it broke out abruptly.

“I am surprised that you keep up with such people,” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

“If you mean Bessie Pollard,” he rejoined, “she was in trouble and came to me for advice.  I couldn’t help her, but I could at least be civil.  She was kind to me when I was in her father’s store.”

“I do not care to be reminded that you were ever in such a position.”

He flinched, but answered quietly: 

“I am afraid you will have to face it,” he said.  “If you become my wife, you will, unfortunately, have to face a good deal that you might escape by marrying in your own class—­I am not in your class, you know,” he slowly added.

She was conscious of a cloudy irritation which was alien to her usually beaming moods.  The figure of Amos Burr loomed large before her, and she hated herself for the discovery that she was tracing his sinister likeness in his son.  No, it was only the hair—­that was all, but she loathed the obvious colour.