She laughed happily.
“No, I’d as leave have a sawmill as one of them. An automobile wouldn’t fit into a fairy story, now would it?”
Archibald visibly made an effort to fit one in and, failing, shook his head despairingly.
“There I told you. We’ve got to have the coach.”
The sensitive face was lighted from brow to chin with merriment.
Yes. She unquestionably would be pretty. She was pretty even now.
“Oh, you are nice,” she sighed happily.
The man reached across the table and clasped the thin little hands in his.
It was good to give happiness—almost better than being happy. Maybe it was the same thing.
“Before we get the coach and four,” he said, “we’ll hire Mrs. Neal’s horse and buggy and drive to Pittsfield and when we get there we will buy those shoes and aprons and some dresses to go under the aprons and a hat—”