"No," returned Uncle Ben quickly, "nothin'. Did I tell you, Mr. Ford,
that she could play the pianner and sing?"

"No," said Mr. Ford, curtly, rising impatiently and crossing the room.
He was more than half convinced that Uncle Ben was deceiving him. Either
under the veil of his hide-bound simplicity he was an utterly selfish,
heartless, secretive man, or else he was telling an idiotic falsehood.

"I'm sorry I can neither congratulate you nor condole with you on what
you have just told me. I cannot see that you have the least excuse for
delaying a single moment to search for your wife and make amends for
your conduct. And if you want my opinion it strikes me as being a much
more honorable way of employing your new riches than mediating in your
neighbors' squabbles. But it's getting late and I'm afraid we must
bring our talk to an end. I hope you'll think this over before we meet
again--and think differently."

Nevertheless, as they both left the schoolhouse, Mr. Ford lingered over
the locking of the door to give Uncle Ben a final chance for further
explanation. But none came. The new capitalist of Indian Spring regarded
him with an intensification of his usual half sad, half embarrassed
smile, and only said: "You understand this yer's a secret, Mr. Ford?"

"Certainly," said Ford with ill-concealed irritation.

"'Bout my bein' sorter married?"

"Don't be alarmed," he responded dryly; "it's not a taking story."