Part 20

“I--that is, he couldn't take her out, because there's no place to go. It's different in the city, of course, but if he happened to meet her in the country, as I've done--

“Might ask her to drive, possibly, if I could rent Alfred and Mamie for a few hours--no, we'd have to have the day, for anything over two miles, and that wouldn't be good form, without a chaperone. Not that she needs one--she's equal to any emergency, I fancy. Besides, she wouldn't go. If I could get those two plugs up the hill, without pushing 'em, gravity would take'em back, but I couldn't ask her to walk up the hill after the pleasure excursion was over. I don't believe a drive would entertain her.

“Perhaps she'd like to fish--no, she wouldn't, for she said she didn't like worms. Might sail on the briny deep, except that there's no harbour within ten miles, and she wouldn't trust her fair young life to me. She'd be afraid I'd drown her.

“I suppose the main idea is to cultivate a clinging dependence, but I'd like to see the man who could woo any dependence from Miss Thorne. She holds her head like a thoroughbred touched with the lash. She said she was afraid of Carlton, but I guess she was just trying to be pleasant. I'll tell him about it--no, I won't, for I said I wouldn't.

“I wish there was some other girl here for me to talk to, but I'll be lucky if I can get along peaceably with the one already here. I'll have to discover all her pet prejudices and be careful not to walk on any of 'em. There's that crazy woman, for instance--I mustn't allude to her, even respectfully, if I'm to have any softening feminine influence about me before I go back to town. She didn't seem to believe I had any letter from Carlton--that's what comes of being careless.

“I shouldn't have told her that people said she had large feet and wore men's shoes. She's got a pretty foot; I noticed it particularly before I spoke--I suppose she didn't like that--most girls wouldn't, I guess, but she took it as a hunter takes a fence. Even after that, she said she'd help me be patient, and last night, when she said she'd read the papers to me--she was awfully sweet to me then.

“Perhaps she likes me a little bit--I hope so. She'd never care very much for anybody, though--she's too independent. She wouldn't even let me help her up the hill; I don't know whether it was independence, or whether she didn't want me to touch her. If we ever come to a place where she has to be helped, I suppose I'll have to put gloves on, or let her hold one end of a stick while I hang on to the other.

“Still she didn't take her hand away last night, when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else, and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess.

“Carlton said she'd take the conceit out of me, if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter, still it doesn't matter, since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't, for what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow.

“How she lit on me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special! Jerusalem! I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl--there's no doubt of that.”

At this juncture, Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. “Mornin', Mr. Winfield.”

“Good morning, Joe; how are your troubles this morning?”

“They're ill right, I guess,” he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. “Want me to read the paper to yer?”

“No, thank you, Joe, not this morning.”

The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. “Ain't I done it to suit yer?”

“Quite so,” returned Winfield, serenely.

“I don't mind doin' it,” Joe continued, after a long silence. “I won't charge yer nothin'.”

“You're very kind, Joe, but I don't care about it to-day.” Winfield rose and walked to the other end of the porch. The apple trees were in bloom, and every wandering wind was laden with sweetness. Even the gnarled old tree in Miss Hathaway's yard, that had been out of bearing for many a year, had put forth a bough of fragrant blossoms. He saw it from where he stood; a mass of pink and white against the turquoise sky, and thought that Miss Thorne would make a charming picture if she stood beneath the tree with the blown petals drifting around her.

He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. “Be you goin' up to Miss Hathaway's this mornin'?”

“Why, I don't know,” Winfield answered somewhat resentfully, “why?”

“'Cause I wouldn't go--not if I was in your place.”

“Why?” he demanded, facing him.

“Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick.”

“Sick!” repeated Winfield, in sudden fear, “what's the matter!”

“Oh, 't ain't nothin' serious, I reckon, cause she's up and around. I've just come from there, and Hepsey said that all night Miss Thorne was a-cryin', and that this mornin' she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She don't never eat much, but this mornin' she wouldn't eat nothin', and she wouldn't say what was wrong with her.”

Winfield's face plainly showed his concern.

“She wouldn't eat nothin' last night, neither,” Joe went on. “Hepsey told me this mornin' that she thought p'raps you and her had fit. She's your girl, ain't she?”

“No,” replied Winfield, “she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm sorry she isn't well.”