Kent grinned. “Kinda. You worked like a son of a gun, too—till there wasn't any more to do, and then you laid 'em down for fair. You were all in, so I packed you in and put you there where you could be comfortable. And supper's ready—but how strong do you want your tea? I kinda had an idea,” he added lamely, “that women drink tea, mostly. I made coffee for myself.”
Val let herself drop back among the pretty pillows. “I don't want any. If there was a fire,” she said dully, “then it's true. Everything's all burned up. I don't want any tea. I want to die!”
Kent studied her for a moment. “Well, in that case—shall I get the axe?”
Val had closed her eyes, but she opened them again. “I don't care what you do,” she said.
“Well, I aim to please,” he told her calmly. “What I'd do, in your place, would be to go and put on something that ain't all smoked and scorched like a—a ham, and then I'd sit up and drink some tea, and be nice about it. But, of course, if you want to cash in—”
Val gave a sob. “I can't help it—I'd just as soon be dead as alive. It was bad enough before—and now everything's burned up—and all Manley's nice—ha-ay—”
“Well,” Kent interrupted mercilessly, “I've heard of women doing all kinds of fool things—but this is the first time I ever knew one to commit suicide over a couple of measly haystacks!” He went out and slammed the door so that the house shook, and tramped three times across the kitchen floor. “That'll make her so mad at me she won't think about anything else for a while,” he reasoned shrewdly. But all the while his eyes were shiny, and when he winked, his lashes became unaccountably moist. He stopped and looked out at the blackened coulee. “Shut into this hole, week after week, without a woman to speak to—it must be—damned tough!” he muttered.
He tiptoed up and laid his ear against the inner door, and heard a smothered sobbing inside. That did not sound as if she were “mad,” and he promptly cursed himself for a fool and a brute. With his own judgment to guide him, he brewed some very creditable tea, sugared and creamed it lavishly, browned a slice of bread on top of the stove—blowing off the dust beforehand—after Arline's recipe for making toast, buttered it until it dripped oil, and carried it in to her with the air of a man who will have peace even though he must fight for it. The forlorn picture she made, lying there with her face buried in a pink-and-blue cushion, and with her shoulders shaking with sobs, almost made him retreat, quite unnerved. As it was, he merely spilled a third of the tea and just missed letting the toast slide from the plate to the floor; when he had righted his burden he had recovered his composure to a degree.
“Here, this won't do at all,” he reproved, pulling a chair to the couch by the simple method of hooking his toe under a round and dragging it toward him. “You don't want Man to come and catch you acting like this. He's liable to feel pretty blue himself, and he'll need some cheering up—don't you think? I don't know for sure—but I've always been kinda under the impression that's what a man gets a wife for. Ain't it? You don't want to throw down your cards now. You sit up and drink this tea, and eat this toast, and I'll gamble you'll feel about two hundred per cent better.
“Come,” he urged gently, after a minute. “I never thought a nervy little woman like you would give up so easy. I was plumb ashamed of myself, the way you worked on that back fire. You had me going, for a while. You're just tired out, is all ails you. You want to hurry up and drink this, before it gets cold. Come on. I'm liable to feel, insulted if you pass up my cooking this way.”