A step sounded on the platform outside and a lank, good-looking countryman glanced cautiously in through the crack in the door.  Observing Molly, he spat a wad of tobacco over the hitching rail by the steps, and stopped to smooth his straw-coloured hair with the palm of his hand before crossing the threshold.

“Thar’s Jim Halloween now jest as we were speakin’ of him,” whispered Betsey Bottom, with a nudge at Molly’s shoulder.

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” drawled the young man, in an embarrassed rapture, as he entered.  “I was gettin’ my horse shod over thar at Tim Mallory’s, an’ I thought to myself that I’d jest drop over an’ say ‘howdy’ to Mrs. Bottom.”

“Oh, I reckon you caught a glimpse of red through the door,” chuckled Betsey, who was possessed of the belief that it was her Christian duty to further any match, good or bad, that came under her eye.

“I must be going, so don’t hurry your visit,” replied Molly, laughing.  “Mrs. Hatch has been in bed for a week and I’m on my way to see Judy.”

“I’ll walk a bit of the road with you if you ain’t any serious objection,” remarked the lover, preparing to accompany her.

“Oh, no, none in the world,” she replied demurely, “you may carry my cough syrup.”

“It ain’t for yourself, I hope?” he inquired, with a look of alarm.

“No, for grandfather.  He caught cold staying in the barn with the red cow.”

“Well, I’m glad ’taint for you—­I don’t like a weak-chested woman.”

She looked up smiling as they passed the store into the sunken road which led in the direction of Solomon Hatch’s cottage.

“I did see a speck of red through the crack,” he confessed after a minute, as if he were unburdening his conscience of a crime.

“You mean you saw my cap or jacket—­or maybe my gloves?”

“It was yo’ cap, an’ so I came in.  I hope you have no particular objection?” His face had flushed to a violent crimson and in his throat his Adam’s apple worked rapidly up and down between the high points of his collar.  “I mean,” he stammered presently, “that I wouldn’t have gone in if I hadn’t seen that bit of red through the do’.  I suppose I had better tell you, that I’ve been thinking a great deal about you in the evening when my day’s work is over.”

“I’m glad I don’t interfere with your farming.”

“That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?  Do you ever think of me, I wonder, at the same time?” he inquired sentimentally.

“I can’t tell because I don’t know just what that time is, you see.”

“Well, along after supper generally—­particularly if ma has made buckwheat cakes an’ I’ve eaten a hearty meal an’ feel kind of cosy an’ comfortable when I set down by the fire an’ there’s nothin’ special to do.”

“But you see I don’t like buckwheat cakes, and I’ve always something ‘special’ to do at that hour.”