David whipped out a yellow-backed bill from his vest-pocket.
“You had references,” he said in a cautious tone, “for I heard you say so. Who figured as referee?”
Mr. Bellows waved David’s hand aside.
“It’d cost me more’n you’ve got t’ tell you,” he said. “Nope. I ain’t a-goin’ t’ say nothin’ more. Anyway, what business is it of yours?”
David did not choose to acquaint the auctioneer with the reasons for his anxiety, and presently he found himself walking swiftly along the road leading to the Preston farm. He was uncomfortably hungry by this time, but with the unreason of the average man attributed his gloomy feelings to a higher source than his clamorous stomach.
Barbara met him at the door with an agitated face.
“I have heard from—the person who—— Oh, I was hoping you would come!”
“Do you mean the fellow who bought you?” he demanded sharply. Her apparent faith in himself he passed over without notice. “Has he been here?”
“No-o,” murmured Barbara. “But I had a letter.”
She put it into his hand, and watched him eagerly, timidly, while he read it. She had lain awake half the night, thinking of David, of his eyes, of the strong pressure of his arms, of the touch of his lips upon hers. Love had drawn near at last, and she bent her head meekly to his accolade, almost forgetting her chain in the rapture of the moment. But with the morning had come the painful recurrence of all her doubts and fears; and later, as if in answer to her agitated questionings, the letter.