“I think,” the big man spoke, slowly, “I think you’re the loveliest thing God ever made. A thousand times too good for a big brute of a man like me——”
“You don’t treat me like a brute,” observed Patty.
“No; I treat you as I think of you,—a lovely rose petal of a girl,—who ought not to hear of wars or rumours of wars——”
“Nothing of the sort, William Farnsworth! If I were that, I’d deserve to be put under a glass bell, and left there to die of asphyxiation! I’m not a silly roseleaf,—I’m a willing, working patriot! Why, I’m as energetic as—as Molly Pitcher or Barbara Frietchie—or Joan of Arc!”
“That’s right, dear, that’s the right spirit! But you know, Pattibelle, you’re not physically fitted to go on the rampage, as your flashing eyes indicate. You’re the sort who must ‘stay, stay at home my heart and rest; homekeeping hearts are happiest.’”
“Little Billee, you do quote the beautifullest poetry! Where do you pick it all up?”
“Oh, I’ve a store of it somewhere in the top of my head. And I mean no disparagement of your enthusiasm, Patty, but you can’t do hard work, and so——”
“And so I must knit and knit and knit, I s’pose! Billee, dear, when you go to Washington why can’t I go too, and work in the Canteen Department?”
Farnsworth smiled at her. “Do you know what the Canteen Department is?”
“Not exactly; but Louise Dempster has gone to it,——”