“Could what, Ruth?”
“Could get that kiss right——”
The Harvester laughed.
“Forget it, I tell you!” he commanded. “Just so long as you worry and fret, so long I've got to wait. If you quit thinking about it, all 'unbeknownst' to yourself you'll awake some morning with it on your lips. I can see traces of it growing stronger every day. Very soon now it's going to materialize, and then get out of my way, for I'll be a whirling, irresponsible lunatic, with the wild joy of it. Oh I've got faith in that kiss of yours, Ruth! It's on the way. The fates have booked it. There isn't a reason on earth why I should be served so scurvy a trick as to miss it, and I never will believe that I shall——”
“David,” interrupted the Girl, “go on talking and don't move a muscle, just reach over presently and fix the fire or something, and then turn naturally and look at the window beside your door.”
“Shall miss it,” said the Harvester steadily. “That would be too unmerciful. What do you see, Ruth?”
“A face. If I am not greatly mistaken, it is my Uncle Henry and he appears like a perfect fiend. Oh David, I am afraid!”
“Be quiet and don't look,” said the Harvester.
He turned and tossed a piece of bark on the fire. Then he reached for the poker, pushed it down and stirred the coals. He arose as he worked.
“Rise slowly and quietly and go to your room. Stay there until I call you.”