Gathering all her strength she sprang forward, her hand on the swinging gate.
“I’ll hold it back, child,” came a low, sweet voice, and an arm was stretched out before her. “It shan’t slam to and hurt ye.”
He was so close she could have touched him. She saw, even in her agony, the gray, fluffy beard and the wrinkled, weather-stained throat with the unbuttoned collar of the flannel shirt. She saw, too, the big brown hand, as it rested on the gate.
She did not see his eyes. She dared not look so high.
As she entered the kitchen door she gave a hurried glance behind. He was following her slowly, as if in deep thought; his hands behind his back, his eyes on the ground.
Aunty Bell was bending over the stove when Betty dashed in.
“It’s Caleb! He’s coming in! Oh, aunty, don’t let him see me—please—please!”
The little woman turned quickly, startled at the sudden interruption.
“He don’t want ye, child.” The girl’s appearance alarmed her. She is not often this way, she thought.
“He does—he does. He spoke to me—Oh, where shall I go?” she moaned, wringing her hands, her whole body trembling like one with an ague.