“Hum-m.”
“Can you say as much?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Cruel child!”
“I didn’t say no—I only said I wasn’t sure.”
The afternoon slipped away, and at last they ordered their equipage for the homeward drive. Old Jim George bowed them off.
“Good-by, Miss Betty. Good-by, gemman, sah. Ah hope yo’ bofe come hyah agin right soon—yas, indeedy, and I hope yo’ come togedder, too. Yah ha!” He screened his mouth behind his hand and added in a stage whisper: “Miss Betty, that’s a mighty fine gemman yo’s got, he is so, mighty fine.”
They pursued the even tenor of their way homeward. The early butterflies flicked the gray mare’s nose. Blackbirds pilfered a meal from the plowed fields beside the road. Once a thrush—to Betty’s infinite delight—perched on the dashboard and sang a hasty trill.
“Spring is lovely,” declared Betty.
“Lovely,” agreed Fessenden with enthusiasm, and did not feel guilty of a commonplace.