The man looked down squarely to meet her eyes, but he found only the sun-bonnet. “What would you do it for,” he asked; “a lark?”

“A lark?” she echoed; “oh, yes, a lark!”

He stooped toward her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Look up here,” he said; “I want to see if it’s a lark or not.”

“I jus’ said it was,” she answered, so low that he had to bend a little closer to be certain that he heard.

“That won’t do,” he said firmly; “you must look up into my face.”

“I—won’t!” she declared.

He stood gazing at her downcast head. There was something that shone in his eyes, and his tongue was ready to say, “You must.” He closed his lips and straightened himself again. The girl sat perfectly still, except that once in a while there was a catch in her breath. He kept looking off into the empty, sighing reaches of pine country, which could make people do strange things. “We haven’t known each other very long,” he said at last; “but a few minutes ago I thought we knew each other pretty well, and perhaps you don’t have any better friend than I am in this desolate hole. Won’t you tell me why it is you want to marry Collister?”

“For his money!” the girl answered shortly.

His face darkened as if he were cursing Collister’s money under his breath; but she did not look up, and he said nothing until he could speak quietly. “Is that quite fair to Collister?” he asked.

“He did talk about marrying any girl that could make good light bread; but I don’t suppose he wanted to do it unless she liked him a little, too.”

“I—allowed—maybe I’d like him a little,” the girl explained; “an’ I was right sure that he’d like me.”

“That’s the mischief of it,” the man muttered; “I’ll warrant he’ll like you!”

After hiding her face so long the girl looked up, and was surprised to see him so troubled. “You’ve been right good to me,” she said gently, “an’ I reckon I don’t mind—perhaps I had ought to tell you jus’ why I come. I—I don’t think it’s fair; I won’t tell him I can make good bread; only”—she met his eyes appealingly—“if I don’t, I don’t see what I’m going to do.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you have any home?”

She smiled bravely, so that it was sorrowful to see her face. “Not any more,” she said. “I’ve always had a right good home, but my paw died—only las’ week. You an’ Mr. Collister used to know him, an’ he has spoken of you—both of you. He was Noel Seymour from up at Castauplay.”

“Noel Seymour—dead?” said the man. All her light words pleaded with him for tenderness now that he knew she had said them with aching heart. “But Seymour was a Creole,” he added, “and you are not.”

“My own mother was an American,” the girl answered, “an’ I learned my talk from her before she died; an’ then my stepmother is American, too.” She stopped just long enough to try to smile again. “What do you think?” she asked. “My stepmother don’t like me. She isn’t going to let me stay at home any more. Could you be as mean as that?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You poor child!” he said; for gossip came sometimes in return for all that radiated from the farm, and he could recall a cruel story he once heard of Noel Seymour’s wife. It