give the impression of being inferior in size, and it was only when he stood side by side with a genuine Bildad Roader that his stature was noticeably under the neighborhood average. His eye gleamed steadily, like a blue beacon, and he moved with a careless ease that was pleasant to watch. Doris was watching him now; her brother was, too, with a pale smile and a warning in his dull gaze.

Trumbull did not need to study the face of Orla Wilkins to know approximately what was going on behind it; he had been obliged to see that piecrust-colored countenance every time he came for the purpose of getting better acquainted with Doris, and he understood the feelings of Wilkins only too well. Wilkins never left his sister alone for a moment with any man under seventy-five.

Johnny Trumbull had come to the neighborhood a month before, and since he had got acquainted with Doris he had never been able to find her alone; whenever he went to the house, Orla Wilkins opened the door and settled himself in a creaking armchair. To-night there were little sparks in the eyes of Trumbull; he felt reasonably sure that the dimple would not appear so often in the cheek of Doris unless she were glad to see him, and he decided to find out just how much of Wilkins was reputation.

“Miss Wilkins,” began Trumbull after a considerable lull in the conversation, “do you care if I call you ‘Doris?’”

“Why⸺” She turned apple blossom pink, and the dimple twinkled at him as she answered, in a low voice: “I don’t believe I care if you do.’’

A crease appeared straight up and down in the middle of the large brow of Orla Wilkins. He shifted, his chair creaked, and two well-padded hands took hold of the arms as though he might rise suddenly. Trumbull looked at him and grinned; then he spoke to Doris again:

“Much obliged! So far we’ve talked mostly about the price of cordwood and the weather. It’s going to help to call you Doris. Maybe you’d like to go to the next dance at the Corners with me, Doris?”

Her lips parted, but it was the voice of Orla Wilkins that replied; a voice as thick and heavy as molasses and as unpleasantly sticky:

“She don’t like to go to dances. Nor anything else that keeps her out nights. Not with anybody!”

Doris said nothing. She looked down at the red-and-white checks of the cloth upon the table beside which she sat; her fingers traced out the design, but her eyes 

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