He could not believe that—really. Lettie Bronson might be thoughtless, and a little proud; but she was still a princess to Hiram, and he could not think this evil of her.
But there were too many duties every day for the young farmer to give much thought to such problems. Harvesting was not complete yet, and soon flurries of snow began to drive across the fields and threaten the approach of winter.
Finally the wind came out of the northwest for more than a day, and toward evening the flakes began to fall, faster and faster, thicker and thicker.
“It's going to be a snowy night—a real baby blizzard,” declared Hiram, stamping his feet on the porch before coming into the warm kitchen with the milkpail.
“Oh, dear! And I thought you'd go over to Pollock's with me to-night, Hi,” said Sister.
“Mabel an' I are goin' to make our Christmas presents together, and she's expecting me.”
“Shucks! 'Twon't be fit for a girl to go out if it snows,” said Mother Atterson.
But Hiram saw that Sister was much disappointed, and he had tried to be kinder to her since that night of the corn husking.
“What's a little snow?” he demanded, laughing. “Bundle up good, Sister, and I'll go over with you. I want to see Henry, anyway.”
“Crazy young'uns,” observed Mother Atterson. But she made no real objection. Whatever Hiram said was right, in the old lady's eyes.