She shook her head.
“No, sir, please. That’s a poor way. I’d rather do them. Like as not, if I didn’t a greasy plate would pop into my mind just when I was trying on my hat and spoil things. It’s perfectly terrible to have disagreeable things jump out at you when everything’s pleasant as can be. I’d lots rather clean up as I go along.”
“What if you can’t wash your dirty dishes, Peg?”
The man’s tone was queer, though he smiled, and the girl, sensitive to undercurrents, looked up at him quickly.
“Oh, well,” she said and there was a comforting note in her own voice, “when I simply can’t, I just put them to soak in soapy water and try to forget them. It’s wonderful how easy they are to do after a little if you let them soak while you go off and do something else.”
“Yes—I suppose so.” He was evidently doubtful. “Well, we’re not in a mad rush, so clean up as you go along. It’s a good habit, but I always seem to have dirty dishes left over. Come down to Neals’ when you are ready. I’m going to get the horse.”
A half hour later the two drove down the Valley road, while Mrs. Neal leaned over her front gate to watch them go.
The old buggy was shabby, the old horse was physically and temperamentally incapable of anything more spirited than a jog-trot; but Pegeen could not have been prouder, more rapturous, if she had been taking the road with the coach and four of her dreams.
Her faded blue dress had been washed and starched to aggressive crispness. Her heavy mop of black curls was tied with the cherished pink hair ribbons that had been the Smiling Lady’s last Christmas present. Under the battered old straw hat whose rose-wreathed successor was waiting in Pittsfield for Pegeen’s coming, the expressive face was all aflame with excitement and happiness.
Archibald looked down into the dark blue eyes that were well-springs of bubbling joy, and felt oddly young himself.