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“Temper–your temper!” gasped Mary Ellen.

“Yes,” said Abner.

And here a sudden change came over Mary Ellen’s face, and she burst into a shriek of laughter. She laughed with her hands slapping the sides of her skirt, she laughed with her hands clasping her narrow, hollow waist, laughed with her head down on her knees and her fluffy hair tumbling over it. Abner was relieved, and yet it seemed strange to him that this revelation of his temper should provoke such manifest incredulity in both Byers and Mary Ellen. But perhaps these things would be made plain to him hereafter; at present they must be accepted “in the day’s work” and tolerated.

“Your temper,” gurgled Mary Ellen. “Saints alive! What kind o’ temper?”

“Well, I reckon,” returned Abner submissively, and selecting a word to give his meaning more comprehension,–“I reckon it was kinder– aggeravokin’.”

Mary Ellen sniffed the air for a moment in speechless incredulity, and then, locking her hands around her knees and bending forward, said, “Look here! Ef that old woman o’ yours ever knew what temper was in a man; ef she’s ever bin tied to a brute that treated her like a nigger till she daren’t say her soul was her own; who struck her with his eyes and tongue when he hadn’t anythin’ else handy; who made her life miserable when he was sober, and a terror when he was drunk; who at last drove her away, and then divorced her for desertion–then–then she might talk. But ‘incompatibility o’ temper’ with you! Oh, go away–it makes me sick!”

How far Abner was impressed with the truth of this, how far it prompted his next question, nobody but Abner knew. For he said deliberately, “I was only goin’ to ask ye, if, knowin’ I was a di-vorced man, ye would mind marryin’ me!”

Mary Ellen’s face changed; the evasive instincts of her sex rose up. “Didn’t I hear ye sayin’ suthin’ about refreshments,” she said archly. “Mebbe you wouldn’t mind gettin’ me a bottle o’ lemming sody outer the bar!”

Abner got up at once, perhaps not dismayed by this diversion, and departed for the refreshment. As he passed along the side veranda the recollection of Mr. Byers and his mysterious flight occurred to him. For a wild moment he thought of imitating him. But it was too late now–he had spoken. Besides, he had no wife to fly to, and the thirsty or indignant Byers had–his wife! Fate was indeed hard. He returned with the bottle of lemon soda on a tray and a resigned spirit equal to her decrees. Mary Ellen, remarking that he had brought nothing for himself, archly insisted upon his sharing with her the bottle of soda, and even coquettishly touched his lips with her glass. Abner smiled patiently.

But here, as if playfully exhilarated by the naughty foaming soda, she regarded him with her head–and a good deal of her blonde hair– very much on one side, as she said, “Do you know that all along o’ you bein’ so free with me in tellin’ your affairs I kinder feel like just telling you mine?”

“Don’t,” said Abner promptly.

“Don’t?” echoed Miss Budd.

“Don’t,” repeated Abner. “It’s nothing to me. What I said about myself is different, for it might make some difference to you. But nothing you could say of yourself would make any change in me. I stick to what I said just now.”

“But,” said Miss Budd,–in half real, half simulated threatening,– “what if it had suthin’ to do with my answer to what you said just now?”

“It couldn’t. So, if it’s all the same to you, Miss Budd, I’d rather ye wouldn’t.”

“That,” said the lady still more archly, lifting a playful finger, “is your temper.”

“Mebbe it is,” said Abner suddenly, with a wondering sense of relief.