“Were you going out somewhere?” asked Joe.
“No; I forgot to put away a few things, and I came down,” said she. “I woke up out of my sleep thinking of them,” she added.
“Well!” said he, wonderingly. “Can I help you any, Ollie?”
“No; it’s only some milk and things,” she told him. “You know how Isom takes on if he finds anything undone. I was afraid he might come in tonight and see them.”
“Well!” said Joe again, in a queer, strained way.
He was standing in the door, blocking it with his body, clenching the jamb with his hands on either side, as if to bar any attempt that she might make to pass.
“Will you strike a light, Ollie? I want to have a talk with you,” said he gravely.
“Oh, Joe!” she protested, as if pleasantly scandalized by the request, intentionally misreading it.
“Have you got another match in your hand? Light the lamp.”
“Oh, what’s the use?” said she. “I only ran down for a minute. We don’t need the light, do we, Joe? Can’t you talk without it?”