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The old man still sat fiddling softly after his wife disappeared in the hot and stuffy little bedroom off the kitchen. His shaggy head bent lower over his violin. He heard her shoes drop–one, two. Pretty soon she called:

"Come, put up that squeakin’ old fiddle and go to bed. Seems as if you orta have sense enough not to set there keepin’ everybody in the house awake. "

"You hush up," retorted he. "I’ll come when I git ready, not till. I’ll be glad when you’re gone–"

"Yes, I warrant that. "

With which arniable good nlght they went off to sleep, or at least she did, while he lay awake, pondering on "where under the sun she was goin’ t’ raise that money. "

< p>The next day she was up bright and early, working away on her own affairs, ignoring Ripley totally, the fixed look of resolutlon still on her little old wrinkled face. She killed a hen and dressed and baked it She fried up a pan of doughnuts and made a cake. She was engaged on the doughnuts when a neighbor came in, one of those women who take it as a personal affront when anyone in the neighborhood does anything without asking their advice. She was fat, and could talk a man blind in three minutes by the watch.

"What’s this I hear, Mis’ Ripley?"

"I dun know. I expect you hear about all they is goin’ on in this neighborhood," replied Mrs. Ripley with crushing bluntness; but the gossip did not flinch.

"Well, Sett Turner told me that her husband told her that Ripley told him that you was goin’ back East on a visit. "

"Waal, what of it?"

"Well, air yeh?"

"The Lord willin’ an’ the weather permitin’, I expect to be. "

"Good land, I want to know! Well, well! I never was so astonished in my life. I said, says I, ‘It can’t be.’ ‘Well,’ ses ‘e, ‘tha’s what she told me,’ ses ‘e.’But,’ ses I, ‘she is the last woman in the world to go gallivantin’ off East,’ ses I. An’ ses he, ‘But it comes from good authority,’ ses he.’Well, then, it must be so,’ ses I. But, land sakes! do tell me all about it. How come you to make up y’r mind? Ail these years you’ve been kind a-talkin’ it over, an’ now y’r actshelly goin’–Waal, I never! ‘I s’pose Ripley furnishes the money,’ ses I to him.’Well, no,’ ses ‘e.’Ripley says he’ll be blowed if he sees where the money’s comin’ from,’ ses ‘e; and ses I, ‘But maybe she’s jest jokin’,’ ses I.’Not much,’ he says. S’ ‘e: ‘Ripley believes she’s goin’ fast enough. He’s jest as anxious to find out as we be–‘"

Here Mrs. Doudney paused for breath; she had walked so fast and had rested so little that her interminable flow of "ses I’s" and "ses he’s" ceased necessarily. She had reached, moreover, the point of most vital interest–the money.

"An’ you’ll find out jest ’bout as soon as he does," was the dry response from the figure hovering over the stove, and with all her maneuvering that was all she got.

All day Ripley went about his work exceedingly thoughtful for him. It was cold, blustering weather. The wind rustled among the cornstalks with a wild and mournful sound, the geese and ducks went sprawling down the wind, and horses’ coats were ruffled and backs raised.

The old man was husking corn alone in the field, his spare form rigged out in two or three ragged coats, his hands inserted in a pair of gloves minus nearly all the fingers, his thumbs done up in " stalls," and his feet thrust into huge coarse boots. During the middle of the day the frozen ground thawed, and the mud stuck to his boots, and the "down ears" wet and chapped his hands, already worn to the quick. Toward night it grew colder and threatened snow. In spite of all these attacks he kept his cheerfulness, and though he was very tired, he was softened in temper.