"Peter——," he put in.
"Good-by, Mr. Peter."
"Just Peter——" he insisted.
"Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come again?"
"Yes. And I'm going to get you some music——"
"Singin' music?" she gasped.
He nodded.
"And you'll let me know if I can help—Aunt Tillie or you?"
She bobbed her head and was gone.
Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute and confidence that had ever been paid him—at least by a woman. A visit of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender.