“Well, I think that’s just dreadful!” said Miss Mattie.  “I’d like to know what folks will think of me to hear I turned my own cousin out in the barn.”  Her voice trailed off a little at the end as the gist of what they might say if he stayed in the house, occurred to her.  “Well,” she continued, “if you’re set, I suppose I can’t object.”  Miss Mattie was not a good hand at playing a part.

“I’m set,” said Red.  “Get me a blanket.”  As she came in with this, he added, “Say, Mattie, could you let me have a loaf of bread?  I’ve got a habit of wanting something to eat in the middle of the night.”

“Certainly!  Don’t you want some butter with it?  Here, I’ll fix it for you on a plate.”

“No, don’t waste dish-washing—­I’ll show you how to fix it.”  He cut the loaf of bread in half, pulled out a portion of the soft part and filled the hole with butter.  “There we are, and nothing to bother with afterwards.”

“That’s a right smart notion, Will—­but you’ll want a knife.”

In answer he drew out a leather case from his breast pocket and opened it.  Within was knife, fork, spoon and two flat boxes for salt and pepper.  “You see I’m fixed,” said he.

“Isn’t that a cute trick!” she cried admiringly.  “You’re ready for most anything.”

“Sure,” said Red.  “Now, good night, old lady!” He bent down in so natural a fashion that Miss Mattie had kissed him before she knew what she was going to do.

Down to the barn, through the soft June evening, went Red, whistling a Mexican love song most melodiously.

Miss Mattie stood in the half-opened door and listened.  Without was balm and starlight and the spirit of flowers, breathed out in odours.  The quaint and pretty tune rose and fell, quavered, lilted along as it listed without regard for law and order.  It struck Miss Mattie to the heart.  Her girlhood, with its misty dreams of happiness, came back to her on the wings of music.

“Isn’t that a sweet tune,” she said, with a lump in her throat.

She went up into her room and sat down a moment in confusion, trying to grasp the reality of all that had happened.  In the middle of the belief that these things were not so, came the regret of a sensitive mind for errors committed.  She remembered with a sudden sinking, that she had not thanked him for the necklace—­and the money lay even now on the parlor table, where he had cast it!  This added the physical fear of thieves.  Down she went and got the money, counted out, to her unmitigated astonishment, five hundred dollars and thrust it beneath her pillow with a shiver.  She wished she had thought to tell him to take care of it—­but suppose the thieves were to fall on him as he slept?  Red’s friends would have spent their sympathy on the thieves.  She rejoiced that the money was where it was.  Then she tried to remember what she had said throughout the evening.