"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. They came to a bench on the bank, and he made a great fuss
dusting the seat for her with his black slouch hat. Then he regretted the
hat--it was a shabby old hat of a Carlow County fashion.
It was a long bench, and he seated himself rather remotely toward the end
opposite her, suddenly realizing that he had walked very close to her,
coming down the narrow garden path. Neither knew that neither had spoken
since they left the veranda; and it had taken them a long time to come
through the little orchard and the garden.
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