He made out a female figure approaching it. Andy recognized the green
bombazine dress of Miss Lavinia Talcott. She carried a baggy umbrella in
her hand. Andy from experience knew that its possession by the old maid
was generally a sign that she was on the war-path.

"She's hunting for me," thought Andy. "I suppose I've got to face the
music some time, but I'll not do it just now, I've got some business to
attend to, first."

Andy hurried down the Centreville turnpike. He walked along briskly,
more to get out of possible range of Miss Lavinia than with any other
distinct motive in mind. Still, Andy had "business" in view. That burned
down haystack haunted him. Somehow he must square himself with Mr. Dale,
he said. He fancied he had found a way.

Andy did not pause until he was fully a mile down the highway. He felt
safe from interruption now, and sat down on an old log and mused in a
dreamy, drifting sort of a way.

The sound of approaching wagon wheels disturbed him in the midst of a
depressing reverie.

"It's Mr. Dale," said Andy, getting up from the log and viewing the
approaching team. "I wanted to see you, Mr. Dale," he spoke aloud as the
carry-all came abreast of him.

"Oh, hello, you, Wildwood," spoke the farmer with a grin. "Playing
hookey, eh?"