Joe stood there, one foot on the porch, the other on the ground, as blunt as honesty, as severe as honor. There was nothing in his face that either of them could read to indicate what was surging in his breast. He had caught them, and they wondered if he had sense enough to know.
Joe pushed his hat back from his sweating forehead and looked inquiringly at Morgan.
“Your horse sick, or something?” he asked.
“No,” said Morgan, turning his back on Joe with a little jerk of contempt in his shoulders.
“Well, I think he must be down, or something,” said Joe, “for I heard a racket in the barn.”
“Why didn’t you go and see what was the matter?” demanded Morgan crossly, snatching his hat from the table.
Ollie was drowned in a confusion of blushes. She stood hanging her head, but Joe saw the quick turn of her eyes to follow Morgan as he went away in long strides toward the barn.
Joe went to the tool-chest which stood in a corner of the kitchen and busied himself clattering over its contents. Presently he looked at Ollie, his hand on the open lid of the box.
“Did you see that long whetstone lying around anywhere, Ollie?” he asked.
She lifted her head with a little start. Joe never had called her familiarly by her name before. It always had been “Missis Chase,” distant and respectful.