They say she’s l’arned to play ‘Dixie’ on a pyanner an’ reads a new novel every week.  Ab’s awfully tickled about it.  Down at the store t’other day, when Westerfelt rid by on his prancin’ hoss, Clem Dill said:  ’Ab, I reckon it won’t be long ‘fore you move over on yore son-in-law’s big farm,’ an’ Ab laughed so hard he let the tobacco juice run down on his shirt.

“’Liz ‘ll manage his case,’ sez he.  ’Westerfelt may fly around the whole caboodle of ’em, but when Liz gits ’er head set she cuts a wide swathe an’ never strikes a snag ur stump, an’ cleans out the fence-corners as smooth as a parlor floor.’”

Sally bent down over her uncle; her face was slowly hardening into conviction.  When she spoke her voice had lost its ring of defiance and got its strength of utterance only from sheer despair.

“You saw them in his new buggy, Uncle Peter,” she asked, “taking a ride—­are you sure?”

Peter Slogan dropped his eyes; he seemed to realize the force of the blow he had helped to deal, and made no answer.

Mrs. Slogan laughed out triumphantly as she stooped to put her smoothing-iron down on the hearth.

“Ride together!” she exclaimed.  “As ef that was all!  Why, he’s been goin’ thar twice an’ three times a week regular.  Jest as he begun taperin’ off with you he tapered on with her.  I don’t reckon you hardly remember when he come heer last, do you?  Ab Lithicum’s as big a fool as yore mother was in not callin’ a halt.  Jest let a man have a little property, an’ be a peg or two higher as to family connections, an’ he kin ride dry-shod over a whole community.  He’s goin’ thar to-night.  Mis’ Simpkins was at Lithicum’s when a nigger fetched the note.  Lizzie was axin’ ‘er what to put on.  She’s got a sight o’ duds.  They say it’s jest old dresses that her cousins in town got tired o’ wearin’, but they are ahead o’ anything in the finery line out heer.”

A look of wretched conviction stamped itself on the girl’s delicate features.  Slowly she turned to pick up her flowers, and went with them to the mantel-piece.  There was an empty vase half filled with water, and into it she tried to place the stems, but they seemed hard to manage in her quivering fingers, and she finally took the flowers to her own room across the passage.  They heard the sagging door scrape the floor as she closed it after her.

“Now, I reckon you two are satisfied,” said Mrs. Dawson, bitterly.  “Narry one of you hain’t one bit o’ feelin’ ur pity.”

Mrs. Slogan shrugged her shoulders, and Peter looked up regretfully, and then with downcast eyes continued to pull silently at his pipe.

“I jest did what I ort to ‘a’ done,” said Mrs. Slogan.  “She ort to know the truth, an’ I tol’ ’er.”

“You could ‘a’ gone about it in a more human way,” sighed Mrs. Dawson.  “The Lord knows the child’s had enough to worry ’er, anyway.  She’s been troubled fer the last week about him not comin’ like he used to, an’ she’d a-knowed the truth soon enough.”