Mrs. Dodge sank into a chair by the table.

"Oh, I ain't blind," she denied weakly; "but I thought mebbe
Fannie--I hoped--"

"Did you think she'd refused him?" demanded Jim roughly. "Did you
suppose--? Huh! makes me mad clean through to think of it."

Mrs. Dodge began picking the dough off her fingers and rolling it
into little balls which she laid in a row on the edge of the table.

"I've been awful worried about Fanny--ever since the night of the
fair," she confessed. "He was here all that afternoon and stayed to
tea; don't you remember? And they were just as happy together--I
guess I can tell! But he ain't been near her since."

She paused to wipe her eyes on a corner of her gingham apron.

"Fanny thought--at least I sort of imagined Mr. Elliot didn't like
the way you treated him that night," she went on piteously. "You're
kind of short in your ways, Jim, if you don't like anybody; don't you
know you are?"

The young man had thrust his hands deep in his trousers' pockets and
was glowering at the dough on the molding board.

"That's rotten nonsense, mother," he burst out. "Do you suppose, if a
man's really in love with a girl, he's going to care a cotton hat
about the way her brother treats him? You don't know much about men
if you think so. No; you're on the wrong track. It wasn't my fault."