“And I’ll beat up some more hot cake batter,” Millie Buckner fluttered happily. “It won’t take me a minute.”
Sally and David washed their hands and faces at the pump outside the kitchen door, drying them on a fresh roller towel that Jim Buckner brought them.
“Run away to get married, have you?” the farmer asked in an almost pleasant voice, as he led the way to the newly set table.
“Yes,” David answered simply. “We walked all night and we’re rather tired, but we thought there was no use in going in to Canfield until pretty near nine o’clock.”
“I guess Millie can fix up a bed so the little lady can snatch a nap ’tween now and then,” Buckner offered. “Pitch in, folks! it ain’t much, but you’re welcome. Farmer, eh?” and his narrow eyes measured David’s splendid young body thoughtfully. “Aim to locate around here? Old man Webster, the man I rent this patch of ground from, is needing hands bad. He’s got a shack over the hill that he’d likely fix up for you if you ain’t got anything better in mind. Not quite as nice as this house—we got three rooms, counting this lean-to, and the shack I’m referrin’ to is only one room and a lean-to, but the little lady could fix it up real pretty if she’s got a knack that way, like Millie here has.”
Sally almost choked on her mouthful of buckwheat cake. Were all her dreams of a home to come to this—or worse than this? One room and a lean-to! She felt suddenly ill and was swaying in her chair when David’s firm, big hand closed over hers that lay laxly on the table.
“Thanks, Mr. Buckner,” she heard David’s voice faintly as from a great distance. “That’s mighty nice of you, but Sally and I have other plans.”
Other plans? Sally smiled at him tremulously, adoringly, knowing full well that he had no plans at all beyond the all-important marriage ceremony. But after breakfast she lay down on the bed that Millie Buckner hastily “straightened” and drifted off to sleep, as happy as if her future were blue-printed and insured against poverty. For no matter what might be in store for her, there would always be David—
They left the tenant farmer’s shack at half past eight o’clock, Millie and Jim Buckner and the baby waving them goodby. Buckner, ashamed of his ungraciousness, had refused to take the dollar, but David had wrapped the baby’s small sticky fingers about the folded bill.
“Shall we go up the hill and see ‘Old Man’ Webster?” David asked gravely when they were in the lane leading to the highway.