"Get your lantern," returned Will, "and come on to the barn. There's something I must see you about at once," and while the other went in search of the light, he stood impatiently uprooting a tuft of grass as he whistled a college song in unsteady tones.
At the end of a minute Christopher reappeared, bearing the lantern, which he declared was quite unnecessary because of the rising moon.
"Oh, but I must talk indoors," responded Will; "the night makes me creepy—it always did."
"So there is something to say, and it's no nonsense? Are the skies about to fall, or has your grandfather got a grip on his temper?"
"Pshaw! It's not that. Wait till we get inside." And when they had entered the barn, he turned and carefully closed the door, after flashing the light over the trampled straw in the dusky corners. In the shed outside a new-born calf bleated plaintively, and at the sound he started and broke into an apologetic laugh. "You thought I was joking to-day," he said suddenly.
Christopher nodded.
"So I presumed," he answered, wondering if drink or love or both together had produced so extreme an agitation.
"Well, I wasn't," declared Will, and, placing the lantern on the floor, he raised his head to meet the other's look. "I was as dead in earnest as I am this minute—and if it's the last word I ever speak, I mean to marry Molly Peterkin."
His excitable nerves were plainly on the rack of some strong emotion, and as he met the blank amazement in Christopher's face he turned away with a gesture of angry reproach.
"Then you're a fool," said Christopher, with a shrug of his shoulders.