"Ma'm, I don't know how to speak compliments."
CHAPTER IV.
AT THE POST OFFICE.
Beneath the blooming boughs overhanging the mountain road the old carryall was slowly pulled along by a horse into whose joints had crept the dreamy laziness of early summer. Lou, bound about with flowering vines, captive May-queen in purple chains, sat on the rear seat with Tom; and she was shy in this close touch with the mysterious world from afar off; and her timidity made him timid, this youth whose earliest recollection was the booming of cannon, as he played upon a cavalryman's blanket, waiting for his father to return from the charge. Motherless, the pet of the battalion, his playthings the accoutrements of war, his "stick horse," a sabre, his confidential companion a brass field piece. Old soldiers, devoted to their colonel, carried him about on their shoulders, and handsome women made him vain and bold with their kisses; but in the presence of this mountain girl he was subdued. Jim and Mrs. Mayfield sat together—that is, he sat out on the end of a board, as far away from her as he could get, and once when the wheel ran over a stone he fell off.
"Oh," she cried, "you must be hurt."
He got up, with his jack-o'-lantern smile, dusted himself and said:
"I—I would fall for you any time, ma'm."
"But," she laughed, "I didn't want you to fall."