A boyish sense of romance always took possession of him when he approached Betty’s vicinity. A knock at the cottage door, and a direct inquiry for her, would have been too commonplace. No workaday method of communication would suffice under a sky shot with stars and in an air a-tingle with spring.
Lights shone in a couple of rooms in the upper part of the house, while the lower story was in darkness. Apparently, the farmer’s family was already preparing to retire for the night.
Fessenden scouted about the place, smiling to himself at the absurdity of his own action.
There was nothing to indicate which room was Betty’s, and at a venture he tossed a handful of gravel against the panes of the corner room—then another.
Betty’s head and shoulders were the response, framed in the glow of the lamp gleaming through the white curtain behind her. The face, delicately oval, and the slender throat, seemed wrought of gold.
“‘So shines a good deed in a naughty world,’” said Fessenden aloud.
“Who’s there?” she called.
“It’s I.”
“Oh, you!”
“Yes. Can you came down a minute?”