"Minnie, you better go in the house and read, I expect--unless you want to go down the creek and join those folks." "_Me_!" she responded.

"I know when to stay away, I guess.

Do go and put that terrible gun up." "No," said Briscoe, lighting his cigar, deliberately.

"It's all safe; there's no question of that; but maybe William and I better go out and take a smoke in the orchard as long as they stay down at the creek." In the garden, shafts of white light pierced the bordering trees and fell where June roses lifted their heads to breathe the mild night breeze, and here, through summer spells, the editor of the "Herald" and the lady who had run to him at the pasture bars strolled down a path trembling with shadows to where the shallow creek tinkled over the pebbles.

They walked slowly, with an air of being well-accustomed friends and comrades, and for some reason it did not strike either of them as unnatural or extraordinary.