Maud Barrington was not altogether pleased, but she could not blind herself to facts, and it was plain that there was an obligation. “I am afraid I cannot quite believe that, but I do not see what you are leading to.”
Witham’s eyes twinkled. “Well,” he said reflectively, “I don’t want you to fancy that last night commits you to any line of conduct in regard to me. I only asked for a truce, you see.”
Maud Barrington was a trifle nettled. “Yes?” she said.
“Then, I want to show you how you can discharge any trifling obligation you may fancy you may owe me, which of course would be more pleasant to you. Do not allow your uncle to sell any wheat forward for you, and persuade him to sow every acre that belongs to you this spring.”
“But however would this benefit you,” asked the girl.
Witham laughed. “I have a fancy that I can straighten up things at Silverdale, if I can get my way. It would please me, and I believe they want it. Of course, a desire to improve anything appears curious in me!”
Maud Barrington was relieved of the necessity of answering, for the Colonel came up just then; but, moved by some sudden impulse, she nodded as if in agreement.
It was afternoon when she awakened from a refreshing sleep, and descending to the room set apart for herself and her aunt, sat thoughtfully still awhile in a chair beside the stove. Then, stretching out her hand, she took up a little case of photographs and slipped out one of them. It was a portrait of a boy and pony, but there was a significance in the fact that she knew just where to find it. The picture was a good one, and once more Maud Barrington noticed the arrogance, which did not, however, seem out of place there, in the lad’s face. It was also a comely face, but there was a hint of sensuality in it that marred its beauty. Then with a growing perplexity she compared it with that of the weary man who had plodded beside the team. Witham was not arrogant but resolute, and there was no stamp of indulgence in his face. Indeed, the girl had from the beginning recognized the virility in it that was tinged with asceticism and sprang from a simple, strenuous life of toil in the wind and sun.
Just then there was a rustle of fabric, and she laid down the photograph a moment too late, as her aunt came in. As it happened, the elder lady’s eyes rested on the picture, and a faint flush of annoyance crept into the face of the girl. It was scarcely perceptible, but Miss Barrington saw it, and though she felt tempted, did not smile.
“I did not know you were down,” she said. “Lance is still asleep. He seemed very tired.”