Part 48

“That one little pat on my hand to-day, it was better than words.”

“It's all I can think about--your unhappiness.”

“That touches me because I know that you have enough sorrow of your own.”

“Sorrow!” She opened her eyes wide.

“Perhaps I have no business speaking of it,” he returned, with considerable embarrassment.

“And yet I have been so bold as to speak to you!”

There was a touch of reproach in her voice, and therefore he ventured: “Your father told me--I tried to stop him, but he went on and said--Well, I understand! But I have some consolation for you and I'm going to speak out. He says he is going to allow you to marry your young man.”

“Did he dare to talk such matters over with you?”

“He insisted on doing it--on asking my advice. So I advised in a way to help you. I am glad, for your sake, that he is coming to his senses.”

“I thank you for your help,” she said, stiffly.

“Of course it's none of my business. I'm sorry he told me. But I wish you all happiness.”

She rose as if to go away. Then she stamped her foot and sat down. “My father ought to be muzzled!”

She realized that he might misinterpret her indignation, for he said: “I'm ashamed because I meddled in your affairs. But from what you saw to-day in my case, I felt that I ought to help others who are in the same trouble.”

“But my father has mistaken my--” She broke off in much confusion, not understanding the queer look he gave her. “I--I am glad my father is coming to his senses and will allow me to--to--marry the young man,” she stammered. “And now I think I may be allowed to say that I hope you may have the girl you love, some day. Would you like to have me talk to you about her--how dear and pretty I think she is?”

“No, it hurts! But I do want you to know, Miss Can-dage, that I'm not out fortune-hunting. I love her for herself--just herself--nothing more!”

“I know it must be so.”

“And I know that a young man you would choose is worthy of you. I told your father--”

“No matter. That hurts, too! We both understand. We'll leave it there!”

After the declaration of that truce they were frankly at ease and began to chat with friendly freedom. The dusk came shading into the west, the evening star dripped silver light.

“It's a peaceful spot here,” she suggested. “Everybody seems to be contented.”

“Contentment--in a rut--that may be the best way of passing this life, after all.”

“But if you were in the rut, Captain Mayo, you might find that contentment would not agree to come and live with you.”

“Probably it wouldn't! I'd have to be born to the life here like this chap who is coming up the hill. You can see that he isn't worrying about himself or the world outside.”

The man was clumping slowly along in his rubber boots; an old cap was slewed awry on his head, its peak drawn down over one ear. He cocked up the other ear at sound of voices on the porch and loafed up and sat down on the edge of the boarding. Captain Mayo and the girl, accustomed to bland indifference to formality in rural neighborhoods, accepted this interruption without surprise or protest.

“'Tain't a bad night as nights go,” stated the caller.

“It's a beautiful night,” said Polly Candage.

“I reckon it seems so to you, after what you went through. I've been harking to your father telling the yarn down to the store.”

They did not reply, having their own ideas as to Captain Candage's loquacity.