“Try one of these,” suggested Tom Scott, reaching up and picking off a perfect apple from a branch over his head. “You’ll find the flavor rather good.” He handed the apple to Arden.
“Thank you,” she said, in a toneless voice. “What kind is it?”
“Spitzenberg. A very choice variety. You’ll not find many of them around here. This is the only orchard I know of where they grow.”
“How nice—I mean how strange,” murmured Arden. She was not looking at the apple. She was looking at Tom Scott, and she asked: “Have you recovered from your—your accident?”
“Oh!” He laughed. “You mean when the black ram butted me? For it was the sable beast that knocked me out. Yes, thank you, I’m all over that. It wasn’t much. Too bad I didn’t do for that beast before he had a chance at the chaplain. He fared worse than I did—the chaplain, I mean.”
“Yes, he did,” agreed Sim. “But you saved Arden from the same ram.”
“It so happened,” admitted the good-looking gardener.
“Thank you,” said Terry as Tom gave her an apple like the one he had handed to Arden and then passed one to Sim.
“Well, I must be going,” said Tom Scott. “I have an errand in town and——”
“Just a minute!” cried Arden excitedly. In all this time she had not removed her gaze from the young man’s face, not even to munch her apple, as Terry and Sim were doing with theirs. “Wait, please——!”