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“Well, then, ask Bertha Buckolt. She saw him last.”

“What!” cried Jim.

“Hold your tongue, Jim! You’ll make her cry,” said Aunt Emma.

“Well, what’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Jim. “All I know is that Mary wrote to Harry and threw him over, and he ain’t been the same man since. He swears he’ll never come near the district again.”

“Tell Jim, Aunt Emma,” said Mary. And Aunt Emma started to tell the story as far as she knew.

“Saw her at Buckolt’s sliprails!” cried Jim, starting up. “Well, he couldn’t have had time to more than say good-bye to her, for I was with her there myself, and Harry caught up to me within a mile of the gate–and I rode pretty fast.”

“He had a jolly long good-bye with her,” shouted Uncle Abel. “Look here, Jim! I ain’t goin’ to stand by and see a nephew of mine bungfoodled by no girl; an’, I tell you I seen ’em huggin’ and kissin’ and canoodlin’ for half an hour at Buckolts’ Gate!”

“It’s a–a– Look here, Uncle Abel, be careful what you say. You’ve got the bull by the tail again, that’s what it is!” Jim’s face grew whiter–and it had been white enough on account of the drink. “How did you know it was them? You’re always mistaking people. It might have been someone else.”

“I know Harry Dale on horseback two miles off!” roared Uncle Abel. “And I knowed her by her cape.”

It was Mary’s turn to gasp and stare at Uncle Abel.

“Uncle Abel,” she managed to say, “Uncle Abel! Wasn’t it at our Lower Sliprails you saw them and not Buckolts’ Gate?”

“Well!” bellowed Uncle Abel. “You might call ’em the ‘Lower Sliprails,’ but I calls ’em Buckolts’ Gate! They lead to’r’ds Buckolts’, don’t they? Hey? Them other sliprails”–jerking his arms in the direction of the upper paddock “them theer other sliprails that leads outer Reid’s lane I calls Reid’s Sliprails. I don’t know nothing about no upper or lower, or easter or wester, or any other la-di-dah names you like to call ’em.”

“Oh, uncle,” cried Mary, trembling like a leaf, “why didn’t you explain this before? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“What cause have I got to tell any of you everything I sez or does or thinks? It ‘ud take me all me time. Ain’t you got any more brains than Ryan’s bull, any of you? Hey!–You’ve got heads, but so has cabbages. Explain! Why, if the world wasn’t stuffed so full of jumped-up fools there’d be never no need for explainin’.”

Mary left the table.

“What is it, Mary?” cried Aunt Emma.

“I’m going across to Bertha,” said Mary, putting on her hat with trembling hands. “It was me Uncle Abel saw. I had Bertha’s cape on that night.”

“Oh, Uncle Abel,” cried Aunt Emma, “whatever have you done?”

“Well,” said Uncle Abel, “why didn’t she get the writin’s as I told her? It’s to be hoped she won’t make such a fool of herself next time.”

Half an hour later, or thereabouts, Mary sat on Bertha Buckolt’s bed, with Bertha beside her and Bertha’s arm round her, and they were crying and laughing by turns.

“But-but-why didn’t you tell me it was Jim?” said Mary.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was Harry, Mary?” asked Bertha. “It would have saved all this year of misery.

“I didn’t see Harry Dale at all that night,” said Bertha. “I was–I was crying when Jim left me, and when Harry came along I slipped behind a tree until he was past. And now, look here, Mary, I can’t marry Jim until he steadies down, but I’ll give him another chance. But, Mary, I’d sooner lose him than you.”

Bertha walked home with Mary, and during the afternoon she took Jim aside and said:

“Look here, Jim, I’ll give you another chance–for a year. Now I want you to ride into town and send a telegram to Harry Dale. How long would it take him to get here?”