Crane tried not to show the bitterness he felt as he saw his hope of winning the favor of Miss Moyne fading rapidly out, but now and again a cloud of fell upon him.  
At such times it was his habit to lean upon the new fence that Hotel Helicon and dreamily smoke a cigar. He felt a blind desire to somebody, if he could only know who. Of course not Peck, for Peck, too,[82] was , but somebody, anybody who would claim the place of a successful rival.
 
One morning while he stood thus regaling himself with his tobacco and his , Tolliver rode up, on a handsome horse this time, and, lifting his broad hat, bowed and said:
 
“Good mornin,’ Kyernel, how’re ye this mornin’?”
 
“Good morning,” Crane.
 
Tolliver looked off over the valley and up at the sky which was flecked with tags of fleece-cloud.
 
“Hit look like hit mought rain in er day er two,” he remarked.
 
“Yes, I don’t know, quite likely,” said Crane, gazing evasively in another direction.
 
“Ever’body’s well, I s’pose, up ther’ at the ?” inquired Tolliver.
 
“I believe so,” was the cold answer.
 
Tolliver leaned over the pommel of his saddle-tree and combed his horse’s mane with his fingers. Meantime the expression in his face was one of exceeding blent with cunning.
 
“Kyernel, c’u’d ye do a feller a leetle yerrent what’s of importance?” he asked with .
 
“Do what?” inquired Crane lifting his eye-brows and turning the cigar in his mouth.
 
“Jest a leetle frien’ly job o’ kindness,” said Tolliver, “jest ter please ask thet young leddy—thet Miss Crabb ’at I fotch up yer on er mule[83] tother day, ye know; well, jest ax her for me ef I moughtn’t come in an’ see ’er on pertic’lar an’ pressin’ business, ef ye please, sir.”
 
By this time the mountaineer’s embarrassment had become painfully apparent. Any good judge of human nature could have seen at once that he was almost overcome with the burden and worry of the matter in hand. His cheeks were pale and his eyes appeared to be fading into utter of expression. Crane told him that there was no need to be particularly formal, that if he would go in and ask for Miss Crabb she would see him in the .
 
“But, Kyernel, hit’s er private, sort er confab ’at I must hev wi’ ’er, an’——”
 
“Oh, well, that’s all right, you’ll not be interrupted in the parlor.”
 
“Air ye pine blank shore of it, Kyernel?”
 
“Certainly.”
 
“Dead shore?”
 
“Quite, I assure you.”
 
Crane had become interested in Tolliver’s affair, whatever it might be. He could not keep from sharing the man’s evident of mood, and all the time he was wondering what the matter could be. Certainly no common-place subject could so affect a man of iron like Tolliver. The poet’s lively imagination was all over the mystery, but it could not any reasonable theory of explanation.
 
Miss Crabb appeared in the parlor and met Tolliver with a cordiality that, instead[84] of him, threw him into another fit of embarrassment from which he at first made no effort to recover. His wide-brimmed hat, as he twirled it on his knees, quivered convulsively in accord with the ague of excitement with which his whole frame was shaking. He made certain soundless movements with his lips, as if muttering to himself.
 
Miss Crabb at first did not notice his confusion, and went on talking rapidly, thanks for the kindness he had shown her in her recent , and managing to put into her voice some tones that to him sounded very tender and sweet.
 
“You don’t know—you can’t imagine, Mr. Tolliver, what I suffered during that awful night,” she said, turning her head to one side and drawing her chin under until it almost disappeared in the lace at her throat. “It was horrible.”
 
Tolliver looked at her helplessly, his mouth open, his eyes dull and sunken.
 
“How did you happen to discover me up there, anyway, Mr. Tolliver?” she demanded, leaning toward him and laughing a little.
 
“The dog he treed ye, an’ then I seed ye settin’ up ther’ er writin’ away,” he managed to say, a wave of relief passing over his face at the sound of his own voice.
 
“It was ridiculous, perfectly preposterous,” she exclaimed, “but I’m thankful that I was not hurt.”
 
“Yes, well ye mought be, Miss Crabb,” he[85] out. “Wonder ye wasn’t pieces an’ all eround ther’.”
 
She slipped out her book, took a pencil from over her ear and made a note.
 
Tolliver eyed her dolefully. “How do you spell scrunched, Mr. Tolliver, in your dialect?” she paused to inquire.
 
His fell a little lower for a moment, then he made an effort:
 
“S—q—r—u—” he paused and shook his head, “S—q—k—no thet’s not hit—s—k—q—r—dorg ef I spell thet word—begging yer parding, hit air ’tirely too hard for me.” He settled so low in his chair that his knees appeared almost as high as his head.
 
“All right,” she cheerily exclaimed, “I can get it . It’s a new word. I don’t think either Craddock or Johnson uses it, it’s valuable.”
 
There was a silence during which Miss Crabb thoughtfully drummed on her projecting front teeth with the end of her pencil.
 
Tolliver nerved himself and said:
 
“Miss Crabb I—I, well, ye know, I—that is, begging yer parding, but I hev something’ I want er say ter ye, ef ye please.” He glanced around, as if suspecting that some person lay among the curtains of a bay window hard by. And indeed, Dufour was there, lightly indulging in a morning nap, while the mountain breeze flowed over him. He was in a deep ............