Luther realized the moment it was out of his mouth that he had said the wrong thing. Elizabeth’s lips grew white and she held her breath a moment as if preparing to accept what she knew must be the truth.
“Lizzie,” asked Luther gently, “would you like to talk to me about it?”
The girl’s face tensed strangely and her quivering lips refused to do her bidding for a full minute, the relief was so great.
“I—I came out for that,” she said simply when she could speak. “It’s so good of you to understand and make it easy for me. I’ll walk over toward home with you.”
They walked slowly through the barnyard, across the creek, and over the pleasant pasture land. Neither spoke. Elizabeth, now that she had decided to talk to Luther about the circumstances with which she contended, could not bring herself readily to do so. Luther had always the insight of true wisdom, which let others gauge their own inclinations. When they came to the fence which was the boundary line between Luther’s and John Hunter’s farms, they stopped. There was a line of willow trees running at intervals down the fence, and Luther waved his hand in the direction of a shady spot beside them.
“Set down, Lizzie,” he said, seating himself half-facing her.
Elizabeth Hunter crumpled up on the grass with her back against a fence post, and thought while Luther got out his knife and looked for something to whittle.
“Tell me about it,” he said at last. “You want to—and—and I’m a safe person.”
She looked up at him, glad that he had assumed it, and smoothed the path to confession.
“I know you’re safe, Luther. You’re more than that, God bless you!”