"I'm goin' to Fairfax to see about sellin' the colt to-morrow," said Newell, from the wagon.
Dorcas nodded.
"Maybe I'll take a day off myself," she said. "I'll be on hand next-day mornin', if you want anything picked. Good-night."
That evening at ten Newell was driving home from the village, and he marked her light in the kitchen. He stopped, vaguely uneasy, and walked up the path to the side door, and as he came he saw the shades go down.
"Dorcas!" he called, at the door, "it's me, Newell."
Then he heard her hurrying steps. But instead of opening the door to him she pushed the bolt softly, and he heard her voice in an inexplicable mixture of laughter and confusion.
"I'm real sorry, Newell, but I can't let you in. I'm awful sorry."
"All right," he said bluffly, turning away, yet conscious of a tiny hurt of pained surprise. "Nothin' wrong, is there?"
"No," came the laughing voice again, "there's nothin' wrong."
"That's all I wanted to know," he explained, as he went down the path. "Seein' the light so late—"