“That’s so,” admitted Amos Burr, laying down his knife and meeting his wife’s eyes.  “That’s so.  You can’t make a corn pone out of flour dough, noways you turn it.”

“Perhaps I’ll try some day,” said Nicholas with a laugh; and he rose and went out of the house.

When he had reached the little gate he heard a voice behind him, and turned to find his half-sister Nannie, her cheeks flushed like a damp, wild rose above her faded dress.

“I want you to bring me something from the store, Nick,” she stammered.  “I want a blue ribbon for my hair, it’s—­it’s so worrisome.”

She shook her auburn locks, and Nicholas realised suddenly that she must be very good to look at—­to men who were only in a Scriptural sense her brothers.  He felt a vague pride in her.

“Why, of course I will,” he answered.  “Blue let it be.”

And he opened the gate and went on his way, leaving Nannie, still flushed, in the path.

When he took down Jerry Pollard’s shutters a half-hour later he stood for an instant looking thoughtfully down upon the assortment in the window.  Then he leaned over and conscientiously set upright a blue-glass vase before going behind the counter to unpin the curtains hanging across the dry-goods shelves.

After breakfast Bessie Pollard came in and stood with her elbow resting on the showcase as she flirted a small feather duster.  She had just released her hair from curl paper, and it hung in golden ringlets over her forehead.  Her face was ripe and red, like a well-sunned peach, and the firm curves of her bosom swelled the gathers of her gown.

“You look real spry this morning,” she said coquettishly; but he turned from her in sudden distaste.  Her tawdry refinement irritated the more serious manner of his mood.

Presently she went back to her dusting, and he completed his daily setting to rights of the shop before he drew up to the desk and made out the bills that were due for the month.  It was not until some hours later that he looked up upon hearing a step on the threshold.  At first he stood up mechanically at the sight of a girl in a riding-habit.  Then he started and drew back, for the girl lifted her head, and he saw that it was Eugenia Battle.  In the same glance he saw also that there was a keen surprise in her face.

“Why, Nick Burr!” she said breathlessly.  She tripped over her long riding-skirt and caught it hastily in one hand; in the other she carried a small switch.  She had grown tall and straight, and her hair was gathered up from her shoulders.

For a moment they were both silent.  In Eugenia’s face the surprise gave place to gladness, and the warmth of her personality gathered to her eyes.  She held out her ungloved hand.

“Why, Nick Burr!” she said again.

But Nicholas looked at her in silence.  All the dogged bitterness of the last six months welled to his lips—­all his new-found philosophy evaporated at the sting of wounded pride.  He remembered with a start the gray road on the afternoon in November, the sullen cast of the sky, the hopeless trend of the wind among the trees, the leaping of the light into Eugenia’s face.  She laughed now as she had laughed then—­a hearty little burst of surprise in the suddenness of the meeting.