alone. The glances they exchanged were charged with meaning--but it was an
unexplainable meaning. Several times as he pondered over it, Tom lost the
thread of Mr. Beecham's remarks, and had to grope for the right answers.

"Your horse will be ready for you in a few minutes," said Mr. Beecham as
they arose from the table.

"And your clothes are dried and in your room," added his wife.

It was time to be going. He mounted to his room, changed into the rough
suit he had bought in Shelbyville, and forced his feet into his soggy
shoes. They were waiting for him before the fire as he came down. After a
moment, Mrs. Beecham left them. Tom hoped desperately that Mr. Beecham
would do likewise.

"I'll see if Sam is bringing your horse," he said.

Tom's eyes met Marjorie's as the older man entered the next room, where he
could look out toward the stables. He had no sooner disappeared than Tom
asked in a low voice: "Why did you do that?"

"You're not a Southerner, are you?" she asked.

"No," he answered bluntly. "But what...?"

"I'm not either," she replied. Her glowed with excitement. "I'm from
Albany...."

They were interrupted by Mr. Beecham's returning. "The horse is coming," he
announced. Mrs. Beecham entered the room.