“Won't you accept my word?”
“No. I will see the other drawings first, and if I think mine are as good, I will be glad to take the money to-morrow.”
“What if you can't come?”
“Put them under the oilcloth. I watch all the time and I think Uncle Henry has trained even the boys so they don't play in the river on his land. I never see a soul here; the woods, house, and everything is desolate until he comes home and then it is like——” she paused.
“I'll say it for you,” said the Harvester promptly. “Then it is like hell.”
“At its worst,” supplemented the Girl. Taking pencils and a sheet of paper she went swiftly through the woods. Before she left the shelter of the trees, the Harvester saw her busy her hands with the front of her dress, and he knew that she was concealing the drawing material. The colour box was left, and he said things as he put it with the chair and table, covered them with the rug and oilcloth, and heaped on a layer of leaves.
Then he drove to the city and Betsy turned at the hospital corner with no interference. He could face his friend that day. Despite all discouragements he felt reassured. He was progressing. Means of communication had been established. If she did not come, he could leave a note and tell her if the moth had not emerged and how sorry he was to have missed seeing her.
“Hello, lover!” cried Doctor Carey as the Harvester entered the office. “Are you married yet?”
“No. But I'm going to be,” said the Harvester with confidence.
“Have you asked her?”