“She’s awake,” he said in a whisper.
“Who on earth are you talking with out there?” called the querulous voice.
“Good-night,” he whispered, moving away hurriedly; but, looking back, he saw that Martha remained at the separating iron fence, leaning upon it now; and he could feel, rather than see, that she was not looking at him, but that her head was again bowed in the same meekness with which she had said she hoped he prized her feeling for him.
CHAPTER XI
THE doleful bride remained in bed all the next day, prostrate under the continuing heat;—in fact, it was not until a week had passed that she felt herself able to make the excursion projected by the hopeful bridegroom; and when they finally did set forth, in Dan’s light runabout, she began to suffer before they reached the gates of the carriage driveway.
“Oh, dear!” she said. “Is it going to be bumpy like this all the way? It hurts my back.”
Dan apologized. “I’m sorry I didn’t have those holes in the drive filled up; I’ll do it myself this evening. But here on the avenue,” he said, as they turned north from the gates, “we’ll have this fine cedar-block pavement for quite a good way.”
“Oh, dear!” she complained. “It’s worse on the cedar-block pavement than it was in your driveway.”
“It is a little teeny bit jolty,” Dan admitted. “You see this pavement’s been down over five years now, but it’s held out mighty well when you consider the traffic that’s been over it—mighty well! It’s been one of the finest pavements I ever saw in any town.”
She gave a little moan. “You talk as if what it has been were a great help to us now. It does hurt my back, Dan.”