“My! You ain’t crazy, are you?”
Fessenden laughed, and a term of endearment ran close to the tip of his tongue. “People who live much alone have odd fancies. But that doesn’t mean they’re crazy.”
“I guess they’re crazy enough if they’re too different. But you look real sensible. I presume you’re all right.”
She looked adorable in her feminine attempt to console him, and Fessenden wheeled about and swung the axe victoriously into a fruitful maple. This time the young lady was bored. She preferred conversation, and this mountain stripling certainly was handsomer than the Malone small-fry who worshipped at her shrine.
She coughed pleasantly but imperiously, and as Fessenden turned quickly the sun blazed full upon her, covering her bright hair with little golden sparks. Her eyes looked babyish and wistful; she had one of those mouths that quiver when pouting. The poor little creature was the more dangerous for being quite natural and sincere. She had neither the brains nor the energy for coquetry, and even to youths of some slight experience she seemed as perfect as she was pretty.
Fessenden threw aside his axe. “Let’s go down to the lake,” he said, with brutal abruptness. “It’s not far, and I’ll row you and Mamie home—here she comes.”
He strode on ahead, and when the girls reached the shore he had one of the boats drawn up to the landing. He rowed with such swift strong strokes that the light craft fairly flew up the lake.
“My, Fess!” remarked Mamie Hunter. “You appear to be in a hurry—must have wasted time after I left you.”
“Of course the trees have to be spiled, but Miss Morton was too tired to walk home. You shouldn’t have brought her such a distance the first time.”
“She didn’t calculate on finding a nurse ready made; she’s real fortunate. Perhaps you’ll come over and carry her next time.”