away down Providence Road to Sweetbriar, Rose Mary and her cold milk
crocks, thither impelled by deep--thirsts.

And under the hospitable eaves of the milk-house he found Rose Mary
and her cooling draft--also Mrs. Caleb Rucker, with small Pete in tow.

"Howdy, Mr. Mark," the visiting neighbor answered in response to his
forcedly cordial greeting. If a man has walked a mile and a half with
a picture of a woman handing him a glass of cool milk with a certain
lift of black lashes from over deep, black blue eyes it
is--disconcerting to have her do it in the presence of another.

"I just come over to get a bucket of buttermilk for Granny
Satterwhite," he found Mrs. Rucker saying as he forced his attention.
"She won't touch mine if there's any of Rose Mary's handy. Looks like
she thinks she's drinking some of Rose Mary's petting with every
gulp."

Everett had just raised the glass Rose Mary had handed him, to his
lips, as Mrs. Rucker spoke, and over its edge he regarded the roses
that suddenly blushed out in her cheeks, but she refused to raise her
lashes the fraction of an inch and went calmly on pressing the milk
from the butter she had just taken from the churn.

"Granny knows that love can be sent just as well in a glass of
buttermilk as in a valentine," she finally said, and as she spoke a
roguish smile coaxed at the comer of her mouth. "Don't you suppose a
piece of hemp twine would turn into a gold cord if you tied it around
a bundle of true love?" she ventured further in a spirit of daring,
still with her eyes on the butter.