“No ma'am! We are going in a carriage or a motor,” said the Harvester.
“Indeed we are not!” contradicted the Girl. “You have had this all your way so far. I am going home behind Betsy, with Belshazzar at my knee.”
“But your dress! People will think I am crazy to put a lovely woman like you in a spring wagon.”
“Let them!” said the Girl placidly. “Why should we bother about other people? I am going with Betsy and Belshazzar.”
The Harvester had been thinking that he adored her, that it was impossible to love her more, but every minute was proving to him that he was capable of feeling so profound it startled him. To carry the Girl, his bride, through the valley and up the hill in the little spring wagon drawn by Betsy—that would have been his ideal way. But he had supposed that she would be afraid of soiling her dress, and embarrassed to ride in such a conveyance. Instead it was her choice. Yes, he could love her more. Hourly she was proving that.
“Come this way a few steps,” he said. “Betsy is here.”
The Girl laid her face against the nose of the faithful old animal, and stroked her head and neck. Then she held her skirts and the Harvester helped her into the wagon. She took the seat, and the dog went wild with joy.
“Come on, Bel,” she softly commanded.
The dog hesitated, and looked at the Harvester for permission.
“You may come here and put your head on my knee,” said the Girl.