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Yet it was difficult to conceive what connection this episode had in his mind with his suspended attention to Mary Ellen, or why it should determine his purpose. But he had a logic of his own, and it seemed to have demonstrated to him that he must propose to the girl at once. This was no easy matter, however; he had never shown her any previous attention, and her particular functions in the hotel,–the charge of the few bedrooms for transient guests–seldom brought him in contact with her. His interview would have to appear to be a business one–which, however, he wished to avoid from a delicate consciousness of its truth. While making up his mind, for a few days he contented himself with gravely regarding her in his usual resigned, tolerant way, whenever he passed her. Unfortunately the first effect of this was an audible giggle from Mary Ellen, later some confusion and anxiety in her manner, and finally a demeanor of resentment and defiance.

This was so different from what he had expected that he was obliged to precipitate matters. The next day was Sunday,–a day on which his employees, in turns, were allowed the recreation of being driven to Big Flume City, eight miles distant, to church, or for the day’s holiday. In the morning Mary Ellen was astonished by Abner informing her that he designed giving her a separate holiday with himself. It must be admitted that the girl, who was already “prinked up” for the enthrallment of the youth of Big Flume City, did not appear as delighted with the change of plan as a more exacting lover would have liked. Howbeit, as soon as the wagon had left with its occupants, Abner, in the unwonted disguise of a full suit of black clothes, turned to the girl, and offering her his arm, gravely proceeded along the side veranda across the mound of debris already described, to the adjacent wilderness and the very trees under which he and Byers had sat.

“It’s about ez good a place for a little talk, Miss Budd,” he said, pointing to a tree root, “ez ef we went a spell further, and it’s handy to the house. And ef you’ll jest say what you’d like outer the cupboard or the bar–no matter which–I’ll fetch it to you.”

But Mary Ellen Budd seated herself sideways on the root, with her furled white parasol in her lap, her skirts fastidiously tucked about her feet, and glancing at the fatuous Abner from under her stack of fluffy hair and light eyelashes, simply shook her head and said that “she reckoned she wasn’t hankering much for anything” that morning.

I’ve been calkilatin’ to myself, Miss Budd,” said Abner resignedly, “that when two folks–like ez you and me–meet together to kinder discuss things that might go so far ez to keep them together, if they hez had anything of that sort in their lives afore, they ought to speak of it confidentially like together.”

“Ef any one o’ them sneakin’, soulless critters in the kitchen hez bin slingin’ lies to ye about me–or carryin’ tales,” broke in Mary Ellen Budd, setting every one of her thirty-two strong, white teeth together with a snap, “well–ye might hev told me so to oncet without spilin’ my Sunday! But ez fer yer keepin’ me a minit longer, ye’ve only got to pay me my salary to-day and”–but here she stopped, for the astonishment in Abner’s face was too plain to be misunderstood.

“Nobody’s been slinging any lies about ye, Miss Budd,” he said slowly, recovering himself resignedly from this last back-handed stroke of fate; “I warn’t talkin’ o’ you, but myself. I was only allowin’ to say that I was a di-vorced man.”

As a sudden flush came over Mary Ellen’s brownish-white face while she stared at him, Abner hastened to delicately explain. “It wasn’t no onfaithfulness, Miss Budd–no philanderin’ o’ mine, but only ‘incompatibility o’ temper.'”