“So far, I’ve done nothing but talk; and talk is cheap,” he laughed.
“You have given me courage,” she said with shy hesitation. “And sympathy is worth a good deal.”
He did not respond as she thought he might have done, and she continued:
“If my father had been less obstinate, you need not have gone; he could have hired a professional inquiry agent. But you had better not say anything about your object to him—it must be a secret between us.”
“Yes,” assented Prescott thoughtfully, “I guess that would be wiser. You want to keep his mind at rest as far as you can. Of course, there’s a big chance that I may fail.”
Gertrude turned to him with a smile.
“Oh, no! You are not one to fail!”
Prescott was slightly embarrassed. He had a feeling that he was being gently led on toward a closer acquaintance with his companion. She was dropping the reserve she had at first displayed and seemed to invite him tacitly into her confidence. He admitted that this idea might be incorrect, but it had troubled him once or twice before.
“I expect you’ll be comfortable enough while I’m away,” he said. “Mrs. Svendsen’s trustworthy, and everything will be quiet after the harvesters have gone.”
Gertrude did not answer, and they went on in silence to the noisy separator. Perspiring men, stripped of their heavier garments, were tossing the sheaves amid a cloud of dust; cleaned grain poured out into open bags, and as each was filled two panting toilers flung it into a wagon. Near-by stood a great and growing pile of bags, over which the short straw would be spread a number of feet thick, to form a granary. Gertrude joined her father, who was standing near the machine, moodily looking on, and before Prescott had unloaded his wagon Curtis rode up with Private Stanton.