and, revived by the refreshing breeze caused by the rapid motion of the
buggy along the road, thanked him graciously.

"I suppose there are many strangers at the Green Springs Hotel," she
said, after a pause.

"I didn't get to see 'em, as I only put up my hoss there," he replied.
"But I know the stage took some away this mornin': it seemed pretty well
loaded up when I passed it."

The woman drew a deep sigh. The act struck Mr. Bowers as a possible
return of her former nervous weakness. Her attention must at once be
distracted at any cost--even conversation.

"Perhaps," he began, with sudden and appalling lightness, "I'm a-talkin'
to Mrs. McFadden?"

"No," said the woman, abstractedly.

"Then it must be Mrs. Delatour? There are only two township lots on that
crossroad."

"My name IS Delatour," she said, somewhat wearily.

Mr. Bowers was conversationally stranded. He was not at all anxious to
know her name, yet, knowing it now, it seemed to suggest that there was
nothing more to say. He would, of course, have preferred to ask her
if she had read the poetry about the Underbrush, and if she knew the
poetess, and what she thought of it; but the fact that she appeared
to be an "eddicated" woman made him sensitive of displaying technical