Albert smiled a trifle satirically when the project was unfolded to him—with that conceited tolerance which people who don’t fish always extend to those who do. “You’ll probably get wet and have the toothache” he said to his wife, but offered no objection.
The lunch was packed, the poles were ready, the bait-can stood outside the shed door, breakfast was a thing of the past, and Isabel sat with her sunhat and parasol—but Annie did not come. Seth fidgeted and fumed as a half-hour went by, then the hour itself. It was so unlike Annie to be late. He made an errand to the hay-barn, to render the waiting less tedious, and it was there that Milton found him, rummaging among some old harness for a strap.
“Annie’s come over,” said Milton, “I heerd her say somethin’ ’baout not goin’ fishin’, after all. Looks ’sif she’d be’n cryin’ tew. I tole ’em I’d fetch yeh.”
Seth came out into the light, slapping the dust off his hands. “What’s that you say? Why isn’t she going?”
“I dunnao nothin’ more ’n I’ve told yeh. Ask her yerself. I ’spose she’s be’n cryin’ at the thought of yer goin’. That’ll be the eend o’ ev’rythin’ atwixt you two, won’t it?”
“Oh, do mind your own business, Milton!” Seth said, and hurried across the barnyard to where the two young women stood, on the doorstep. “Why aren’t you going, Annie? What’s the matter?” he called out as he approached.
Poor Annie looked the picture of despair. Her face bore the marks of recent tears and she hung her head in silence. Isabel answered for her.
“Going? Of course she is going. It would be ridiculous not to go, now that everything’s arranged. Get the things together, Seth, and let us make a start.”
“But Milton said she wasn’t going,” persisted Seth.
“Dear, dear, how downright you are! Don’t I tell you that she is going, that there is nothing the matter, that we are waiting for you?” And there was nothing more to be said.