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His words and manner almost took away the girl’s breath, so unexpected were they, and unlike her idea of the man. In that brief moment a fearless soldier had flashed himself upon her consciousness, revealing a spirit that would flinch at nothing– that had not even quailed at the necessity of forfeiting her esteem, that his mother might not want. Humiliated and conscience- stricken that she had done him so much injustice, she rushed forward, crying, “Stop, Zebulon; please do not go away angry with me! I do not forget that we have been old friends and playmates. I’m willing to own that I’ve been wrong about you, and that’s a good deal for a girl to do. I only wish I were a man, and I’d go with you.”

Her kindness restored him to his awkward self again, and he stammered, “I wish you were–no, I don’t–I merely stopped, thinking you might have a message; but I’d rather not take any to Zeke Watkins–will, though, if you wish. It cut me all up to have you think I was afraid,” and then he became speechless.

“But you acted as if you were afraid of me, and that seemed so ridiculous.”

He looked at her a moment so earnestly with his dark, deep-set eyes that hers dropped. “Miss Susie,” he said slowly, and speaking with difficulty, “I AM afraid of you, next to God. I don’t suppose I’ve any right to talk to you so, and I will say good-by. I was reckless when I spoke before. Perhaps–you’ll go and see mother. My going is hard on her.”

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if he were taking his last look, then he turned slowly away.

“Good-by, Zeb,” she called softly. “I didn’t–I don’t understand. Yes, I will go to see your mother.”

Susie also watched him as he strode away. He thought he could continue on steadfastly without looking back, but when the road turned he also turned, fairly tugged right about by his loyal heart. She stood where he had left her, and promptly waved her hand. He doffed his cap, and remained a moment in an attitude that appeared to her reverential, then passed out of view.

The moments lapsed, and still she stood in the gateway, looking down the vacant road as if dazed. Was it in truth awkward, bashful Zeb Jarvis who had just left her? He seemed a new and distinct being in contrast to the youth whom she had smiled at and in a measure scoffed at. The little Puritan maiden was not a reasoner, but a creature of impressions and swift intuitions. Zeb had not set his teeth, faced his hard duty, and toiled that long summer in vain. He had developed a manhood and a force which in one brief moment had enabled him to compel her recognition.

“He will face anything,” she murmured. “He’s afraid of only God and me; what a strange thing to say–afraid of me next to God! Sounds kind of wicked. What can he mean? Zeke Watkins wasn’t a bit afraid of me. As mother said, he was a little forward, and I was fool enough to take him at his own valuation. Afraid of me! How he stood with his cap off. Do men ever love so? Is there a kind of reverence in some men’s love? How absurd that a great strong, brave man, ready to face cannons, can bow down to such a little–” Her fragmentary exclamations ended in a peal of laughter, but tears dimmed her blue eyes.

Susie did visit Mrs. Jarvis, and although the reticent woman said little about her son, what she did say meant volumes to the girl who now had the right clew in interpreting his action and character. She too was reticent. New England girls rarely gushed in those days, so no one knew she was beginning to understand. Her eyes, experienced in country work, were quick, and her mind active. “It looks as if a giant had been wrestling with this stony farm,” she muttered.