"Why do you shun me?" she asked.
"May you never understand from experience," he said with a smile that was sadder than tears, and passed on up to his room.
And yet, though he did not know it, his course was the best policy, for it awakened stronger respect and sympathy on her part.
The next morning ushered in the first of the dreamy Indian-summer days, when Nature, as if grieved over the havoc of the frost, would hide the dismantled trees and dead flowers by a purple haze, and seek as do fading beauties to disguise the ravages of time by drawing over her withered face a deceptive veil.
Gregory felt so much better that he thought he could venture to make a parting call on Daddy Tuggar. He found the old man smoking on his porch, and his reception was as warm and demonstrative as his first had been a month ago, though of a different nature. Gregory lighted a cigar and sat down beside him.
"I'm wonderful glad to see you," said Mr. Tuggar. "To think that I should have cussed you when it was the good Lord that brought you here!"
"Do you think so?" asked Gregory.
"Certain I do. Would that house be there? Wouldn't all our hearts be broke for Miss Annie if it wasn't for you?"
Gregory felt that his heart was "broke" for her as it was, but he said, "It was my taking her out to walk that caused her danger. So you wouldn't have lost her if I had not come."
"You didn't knowin'ly git her in danger, and you did knowin'ly git her out, and that's enough for me," said the old man.