Conscious of his unshorn beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the road.

A voice that thrilled him called his name.

It was Miss Porter, a resplendent vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers--yet actually running, with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon.
As the astonished teamster drew up before this elegant apparition, she panted: "Why did you make me run so far, and why didn't you look up ?" Cass, trying to hide the patches on his knees beneath a newspaper, stammered that he had not seen her.
"And you did not hold down your head purposely ?" "No," said Cass.
"Why have you not been to Red Chief?
Why didn't you answer my message about the ring ?" she asked, swiftly.
"You sent nothing but the ring," said Cass, coloring, as he glanced at the teamster.
"Why, _that_ was a message, you born idiot." Cass stared.

The teamster smiled.

Miss Porter gazed anxiously at the wagon.