"Where are you?" she asked. There was an eloquent quiver in her voice.
"Never mind. I'm in the house. Stop where you are. There's a little throne. I made it for you."
She had her hand on the back of a rough chair. At once she seated herself.
"I never heard of a throne in a playhouse," she said, with that new merriment he made for her.
"You never saw a playhouse just like this. That's a beautiful throne. It fits together like a chair. It's here in the playhouse by night, but before daylight I draw it up into the tree and hide it."
"What if somebody finds it?"
"They'll think it's a chair."
"What if they break it?"
"That's easy. We'll make another. There's nothing so easy as to make a throne for a playhouse, if you know the way. Well, playmate, how have you been, all this long time?"
When she came across the field she had meant to tell him how sad she was, how perplexed, how incapable of meeting the ills confronting her. But immediately it became unnecessary, and she only laughed and said,—