leading straight up the road. Abner's oxen were his one luxury. A much cheaper team would have done his work as well, but for three years he had driven the big white fellows to victory in the heavy-weight drawing class at the fair and they were generally known for miles around as "about the best lookin' an' pullin' cattle that ever looked through a pair o' bows." He intended to again take first honors at the fair the next week, and had asked Miss Whitney to drive down with him, but she had given him the indefinite answer that she didn't know as she 'could' go, she was 'so' busy making little things for the box which the new minister wished to send to China.

Abner was somewhat reassured as he came in sight of the house -by its peaceful, undisturbed appearance. The flower beds were all untouched. The parlor windows gave an air of quiet with their green shades all three-quarters down to a nicety and those of the sitting-room fairly smiled, half open, their little muslin curtains bobbing and fluttering in the breeze. Abner drew a breath of relief as he knocked at the kitchen door. No response. He opened the door. No one there, but still that air of restfulness. Miss Whitney's cat purred sleepily from the depths of a great cushioned rocker. Several braided rag mats dotted the painted floor like little islands on a peaceful, yellow sea. Abner began to feel nervous again. This was too much like the calm preceding a storm. As he turned to the sitting-room something white flashed past the window into the front yard. He rushed out just as the Whitney family rounded the corner in pursuit. Miss Whitney, in the van, was in the act of hurling a stone at the nearest of his pets, who seemed doing his best to do justice to all of the flowers in the brief time at his disposal. The stone struck near his heels, and playfully kicking over a red tub of Sweet William, he lumbered off down the road to join his mate.

"Sorry, Miss Whitney," Abner began, lamely, "but they will git out. Feed's gittin' kinder short in ther paster 'n—"

"Feed short, nothin'!" snapped Miss Whitney, turning on him. "Mebbe that's why they ben eatin' up an acre of my corn, 'n meb

be 'taint. Mebbe they got out 'cause they're 'breechy', but I'd sooner think it's 'cause the man 't owns 'em's too shif'less ter keep his fences mended! Ef them cattle come up here agin', Ab. Gray, I'll pound 'em. I'm goin' ter the association today an' shan't be home, but of them 'things' git up here, I want you, Lute Herrick, t' drive 'em straight ter the pound, understand?"

She abruptly turned and entered the house, and Abner turned his dazed steps after his retreating oxen.

This day, so inauspiciously begun, had been anticipated by Miss Whitney with no small degree of excitement. This day the Baptist Association was to meet in the church at the village. She was half sorry as soon as she had uttered those scathing words to Abner Gray, but she was not in a mood to do otherwise that morning, for two reasons. First, because she was thoroughly angry because of her ruined front yard, and then because her thoughts were in a plane much too high to argue very long with stupid Abner Gray. She had never considered Abner as particularly stupid until the new minister came, and, to be truthful, the minister was unconsciously at the bottom of the whole matter. Miss Whitney was above all else a woman of much common sense, but this man, so different from any one she had ever known, had put her in a strange flutter. He had been simply courteous to her, but she had spent hours trying to find double meanings to some of his phrases. She had read more romantic stories since he came than in all her life, before. She wondered how he would act toward her before all of those people at the Association meeting. Much thinking had turned the romance of her mind, into a reality for her.

With hands that trembled the least bit, she drew on her black silk mitts and ordered Lutie to harness the colt into the new buggy. Her father protested, weakly, against her driving the young and hardly broken beast, but she must make the best possible appearance that day, and she drove the colt.

The morning session was almost uneventful, but not altogether pleasing to Miss Whitney. The minister was there, to be sure, and his greeting was no less flattering than usual, but somehow, after the first hand-shake, she received very little of his a tention. She tried to console herself with the thought that he was too busy, but she could not dispute the fact that his attention to various other people, especially to the wealthier of his parishioners, was much more marked. In fact, before the morning session adjourned Miss Whitney had begun to realize that there could be. very little comparison between her importance in the reig borhood of the farm and her importance in that gathering of the more or less distinguished representatives of many churches. She went to dinner unattended, and the minister accepted an invitation to dine at the hotel with the wealthy Mrs. Hooker, from the somewhat distant city of Bradford.

Miss Whitney was by no means pleased, but the afternoon session, she kept telling herself, would be different. That was to be public, and not in his charge. He would then have an opportunity to show his preference. Probably he would come and sit with her and then people couldn't help knowing.

But it was not in Miss Whitney's nature to endure even seeming slight with patience. She was fast becoming very angry, with whom in particular she hardly knew, but with everything and everybody-in general. Her disenchantment had begun.

But it was for the afternoon session to destroy her dream absolutely and unconditionally. The minister came in chatting gayly with Mrs. Hooker and a stylishly dressed young lady with great blue eyes, to whom he seemed especially attentive. The program of entertainment was a long one, but Miss Whitney neither saw nor heard-except once, when it was announced that Miss Hooker, of Bradford, would sing, and the minister's companion sang two classic ballads, which Miss Whitney did not understand, in a rich, low contralto and resumed her seat amid tremendous applause.

The sun was near setting when the Association finally adjourned. With lips firmly set and a hard look in her eyes, Miss

Whitney arose to leave the church. At the door someone spoke her name. "Pardon me, Miss Whitney, but I wish to present Miss Hooker." Miss Whitney bowed, and the minister added, smiling into Miss Hooker's blue eyes: "I am sure you two will be famous friends when you are one of us, Marie. Miss Whitney entertains delightfully." That was all. Miss Whitney murmured something inaudible and left them abruptly to go for her team.

The shades of the short September twilight were fast falling as Miss Whitney left the village. The colt was unusually restive and occupied much of her attention. Half way home the road ran through a stretch of thick woods. It was nearly dark here. Miss Whitney brought the colt down to a walk and was fast forgetting his treacherous nature, with her mind full of the day's experience, when there came a sudden crash of underbrush from the roadside and two great, gray shadows rose as it by magic directly beside the team. The colt shied sharply. For an instant the wagon poised on two wheels. Then Miss Whitney found herself seated, not ungracefully, among the dead leaves covering the little bank which formed the other side of the road, and caught a glimpse of the colt tearing madly along in the direction of home.

No sooner had the team disappeared than a figure came into view running in the opposite direction. As he came up she recognized Lutie. "Well, Lute Herrick, what be you doin' down here?" She arose and calmly shook out the folds of her crumpled black silk. "Oh! That you, Miss Whitney," he gasped. "I thought you was killed, by th' way the colt went by me."

Then he told her of how Abner Gray's oxen had again appeared in the corn field late that afternoon, and he, followi g instructions, had started them for the pound at the village. But they had gotten away from him as they entered the woods and he was hunting around for them in the dark when the colt passed him. "Ben chasin' 'em fer two hours, an' I don't know whar they be now," he concluded, beginning to cry.

"There, there, Lutie, don't ye mind; guess we won't take them cattle to no pound tonight. They're over thar, side the road. You

git round 'em 'n we'll take 'em back." That night Abner Gray's oxen ate the best meal of their lives in Miss Whitney's barn. The colt and portions of the new buggy had arrived before them. When Abner Gray rose the following morning, the oxen were again missing, but the fact was of far less importance than it had been 24 hours before. After Miss Whitney's words he cared little where they might be. Abner had lost his last hope, and was beginning to realize what that hope had been to him. Mechanically he took his milk pails and started for the barn, when a tramping noise up the road attracted his attention. There were his oxen, sure enough, coming down the road and behind them,-Abner rubbed his eyes and looked again-Miss Whitney!

In silence he waited till the little procession came up to him. The oxen passed on quietly and shamefacedly into the barn-yard. Miss Whitney placed one hand on Abner's shoulder and looked up into his face.

"Abner," she said, "I hope ye didn't mind what I said yisterday. I'm pretty hasty sometimes, but I don't mean nothin'. I want ye ter come up ter my house t' breakfast this mornin', soon's ye git yer cows out, will ye? I've got a lot ter tell ye!" And Abner said that he would.

A. M. B., '01.