She turned her head and looked at me in a way that I could not
misunderstand; it was plain, unvarnished scorn, and a ladylike anger, and
a few other unpleasant things.

It made me think of a certain star in "The Taming of the Shrew."

"Fie, fie! unknit that threatening, unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy neighbor and thine enemy,"

I declaimed, with rather a free adaptation to my own need.

Her brow positively refused to unknit. "Have you nothing to do but spout
bad quotations from Shakespeare on a hilltop?" she wanted to know, in a
particularly disagreeable tone.

"Plenty; I have yet to win that narrow pass," I said.

"Hardly to-day," she told me, with more than a shade of triumph. "Father
is at home, and he heard of your trip yesterday."

If she expected to scare me by that! "Must our feud include your father?
When I met him a month ago, he gave me a cordial invitation to stop, if
I ever happened this way."

She lifted those heavy lashes, and her eyes plainly spoke unbelief.

"It's a fact," I assured her calmly. "I met him one day in Laurel, and was
fortunate enough to perform a service which earned his gratitude. As