asked, gloomily.

"I suppose so," she said. "I suppose you mean that--" but she was
unable to formulate what lay in her confused mind. Besides, Luke
Bradley was coming in. They heard his heavy tread on the veranda.

"Well, come on, John, ef you are ready," he called out. "That blamed
nag o' mine won't stand still a minute."

When Westerfelt had been driven away, and Harriet had watched him out
of sight down the road, she came back to the fire and sat down in the
chair Westerfelt had used during his convalescence. She kept her eyes
fixed on the coals till her mother entered the room.

"I reckon he thought funny that I didn't come in to tell him good-bye,"
she said, with a knowing little laugh; "but I'll be bound he was glad I
didn't. Even Mr. Bradley had the good sense to go outside."

"Mother, what are you talking about?"

"You know mighty well what I mean," returned Mrs. Floyd, with a smile.
"I know Mr. Westerfelt is dead in love with you, and goodness knows you
couldn't fool me about how you feel if you tried. I was a girl once."

"Mother," said Harriet, "I never want you to mention him to me again,"
and she put her hands over her face and began to cry softly.

"Why, what is the matter, dear?" the old woman sat down near her
daughter, now alarmed by her conduct. Harriet stared her mother in the
face. "He knows all about it, mother--he knows I am not your child,