"One o'clock this morning?"
"Well—it was." She was surprised. "How did you know?" she said.
"I was here."
"You are Farmer Oak, are you not?"
"That or thereabouts. I'm lately come to this place."
"A large farm?" she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging back her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it being now an hour past sunrise, the rays touched its prominent curves with a colour of their own.
"No; not large. About a hundred." (In speaking of farms the word "acres" is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as "a stag of ten.")
"I wanted my hat this morning," she went on. "I had to ride to Tewnell Mill."
"Yes, you had."
"How do you know?"
"I saw you."
"Where?" she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her lineaments and frame to a standstill.
"Here—going through the plantation, and all down the hill," said Farmer Oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter in his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the
