It was a Sabbath morning in early spring that he was returning from an
ineffectual attempt to enlist a capitalist at the county town to redeem
the fortunes of Blazing Star. He was pondering over the narrowness of
that capitalist, who had evidently but illogically connected Cass's
present appearance with the future of that struggling camp, when he
became so foot-sore that he was obliged to accept a "lift" from a
wayfaring teamster. As the slowly lumbering vehicle passed the new
church on the outskirts of the town, the congregation were sallying
forth. It was too late to jump down and run away, and Cass dared not
ask his new-found friend to whip up his cattle. Conscious of his unshorn
beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the road. A voice
that thrilled him called his name. It was Miss Porter, a resplendent
vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers--yet actually running,
with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon. As
the astonished teamster drew up before this elegant apparition, she
panted:--

"Why did you make me run so far, and why didn't you look up?"

Cass, trying to hide the patches on his knees beneath a newspaper,
stammered that he had not seen her.

"And you did not hold down your head purposely?"

"No," said Cass.

"Why have you not been to Red Chief? Why didn't you answer my message
about the ring?" she asked, swiftly.