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Sterling looked mystified, but his companion laughed.

“Oh, is that it? Well, turn some water from the sand-box into the old flume and run it down to your new ditch until I get back. I presume the ownership won’t affect the taste. It isn’t necessary to say anything about it; that is, unless you think best.” He looked toward Melissa doubtfully.

“M’lissy won’t blab,” returned her brother-in-law laconically.

The young girl blushed, in the security of her sunbonnet, at the attention which this delicately turned compliment drew upon her, and continued to make intaglios of her bare toes in the mud of the ditch.

It occurred to Sterling for the first time that she might represent a personality. He went around the other two men, who had fallen into some talk about the flume, and stood in the path beside her.

“I have not seen you since you were up the canon,” he said kindly. “I hope your arm did not pain you.”

Melissa shook her head without looking up.

“It was only a scratch; it didn’t even swell up. I never said nothin’ about it,” she added in a lower tone.

The young man entered into the situation with easy social grace, and lowered his own voice.

“You didn’t want to alarm your mother”–

“M’lissy,” interrupted Lysander, “I guess I’ll go on up to the sand-box with Mr. Poindexter and turn on some water. I wish you’d go ‘long down to the orchard and look after the basins till I git back. I won’t be gone but a minute.”

Sterling lifted his hat with a winsome smile that seemed to illuminate the twilight of poor Melissa’s wilted sunbonnet, and the three men started up the canon, the bay that they pushed aside on the path sending back a sweet, spicy fragrance.

Melissa shouldered her hoe and proceeded homeward.

“He does act awful pullite,” she mused, “an’ he had on a ring: I didn’t know men folks ever wore rings. I wish I hadn’t ‘a’ been barefooted.”

Poor Melissa! Sterling remembered nothing at all about her except a certain unconsciously graceful turn she had given her brown ankle as she stood pressing her bare foot in the sand.

V.

On Sunday morning the Withrow establishment wore that air of inactivity which seems in some households intended to express a mild form of piety. Mother Withrow, it is true, had not yielded to the general weakness, and stood at the kitchen table scraping the frying-pan in a resounding way that might have interfered with the matin hymn of a weaker-lunged man than Lysander. That stentorian musician seemed rather to enjoy it, as giving him something definite to overcome vocally, and roared forth his determination to “gather at the river” from the porch, where he sat with his splint-bottomed chair tipped back, and his eyes closed in a seeming ecstasy of religious fervor.

Old Withrow sat on the step, with his chin in his hands, smoking, and two dove-colored hounds stood, in mantel-ornament attitude, before him, looking up with that vaguely expectant air which even a long life of disappointment fails to erase from the canine countenance. Five or six half-clad chickens, huddling together in the first strangeness of maternal desertion, were drinking from an Indian mortar under the hydrant, and mother Withrow, coming to the door to empty her dish-pan, stood a moment looking at them.

“That there hydrant’s quit drippin’ again,” she said gruffly, turning toward the old man. “Them young ones turned it on to get a drink, and then turned it clear off. ‘Pears to me they drink most o’ the time. I’d think they come by it honestly, if ‘t wuzn’t water. If you ain’t too tired holdin’ your head up with both hands, s’posin’ you stir your stumps and turn it on a drop fer them chickens.”

The old man got up with confused, vinous alacrity and started toward the hydrant.

“There’s no need o’ savin’ water on this ranch,” he blustered feebly, “I kin tell you that. You’d ought to go up to the spring and see what a good trade you made. I’m a-goin’ myself by ‘n’ by. I knowed”–