“You're Miss Bronson,” said Sister, gravely. “I wouldn't forget you.”
Perhaps there was something in what Sister said that stung Lettie Bronson's memory. She flushed a little; but then she smiled most charmingly and asked for Hiram.
“Husking corn, Miss, with Henry Pollock, down on the bottom-land.”
“Oh! way down there? Well! you tell him—Why, I'll want you to come, too,” laughed Lettie, quite at her best now.
Nobody could fail to answer Lettie Bronson's smile with its reflection, when she chose to exert herself in that direction.
“Why, I just came to tell you both that on Friday we're going to have an old-fashioned husking-bee for all the young folks of the neighborhood, at our place. You must come yourself—er—Sister, and tell Hiram to come, too.
“Seven o'clock, sharp, remember—and I'll be dreadfully disappointed if you don't come,” added Lettie, turning her horse's head homeward, and saying it with so much cordiality that her hearer's heart warmed.
“She is pretty,” mused Sister, watching the bay horse and its rider flying along the road. “I don't blame Hiram for thinking she's the very finest girl in these parts.
“She is,” declared Sister, emphatically, and shook herself.
Hiram had finished husking the lowland corn that day, with Henry's help, and it was all drawn in at night. When the last measured basket was heaped in the crib by lantern light, the young farmer added up the figures chalked up on the lintel of the door.