Reeves stepped forward: "My wife, Mr.——," his voice trailed purposely, but instead of mumbling a name, and acknowledging the introduction with an embarrassed bob of the head, Brent smiled:
"Let us leave it that way, please. Mrs. Reeves, allow me," and stepping swiftly to her chair he seated her with a courtly bow. He looked up to see Reeves staring in open-mouthed amazement. Again, he smiled, and stepped to his own place, not unmindful of the swift glance of surprise that passed between husband and wife. After that surprises came fast. Surprise at the ease and grace of manner with which he comported himself, gave place to surprise and admiration at his deft maneuvering of the conversation to things of the "outside"—to the literary and theatrical successes of a few years back, and to the dozen and one things that make dinner small talk. The Reeves' found themselves consumed with curiosity as to this man with the drunkard's eye, the unkempt beard, and the ragged clothing of a tramp, whose jests and quips kept them in constant laughter. All through the meal Mrs. Reeves studied him. There was some
thing fine in the shape of the brow, in the thin, well formed nose, in the occasional flash of the muddy eyes that held her.
"You are from the South, aren't you?" she asked, during a pause in the conversation.
Brent smiled. "Yes, far from the South—very far."
"I am from the South, too, and I love it," continued the woman, her eyes upon the man's face. "From Plantersville, Tennessee—I've lived there all my life." At the words Brent started perceptibly, and the hand that held his coffee cup trembled violently so that part of the contents splashed onto his napkin. When he returned the cup to its saucer it rattled noisily.
The woman half rose from her chair: "Carter Brent!" she cried. And Reeves, staring at his wife in astonishment, saw that tears glistened in her eyes.
The next moment Brent had pulled himself together: "You win," he smiled, regarding her curiously, "But, you will pardon me I'm sure. I've been away a long time, and I'm afraid——"
"Oh, you wouldn't recognize me. I was only sixteen or seventeen when you left Plantersville. You had been away at college, and you came home for a month. I'm Reba Moorhouse——"
"Indeed I do remember you," laughed Brent, "Why you did me the honor to dance with me at Colonel Pinkney's ball. But, tell me, how are your