"Yes," he continued, "and I want a wife, too. You often said you'd like to do something for me, Mattie; suppose you take the job?"
How much of glancing at a thing in one's mind as a beautiful improbability will ever make such a cold fact less astonishing? Miss Mattie eyed him with eyes that saw not; speech was stricken from her.
Red caught fright. He sprang forward and took her hand. "Couldn't you do it, Mattie?" said he. There was a world of pleading in the tone. Miss Mattie looked up, her own honest self; all the little feminine shrinkings left her immediately.
"Ah, but I could, Will!" she said. Lettis came up on the stoop unheard. He stopped, then gingerly turned and made his way back on tip-toe, holding his arms like wings.
"Well, by George!" he murmured, "I'll come back in a little while, when I'll be more welcome."
He spoke to Red in strong reproach that night, in the barn. "You never told me a word, you old sinner!" said he.
"Tell you the honest truth, Let," replied Red earnestly, looking up from drawing off a boot, "I didn't know it myself till you told me about it."
They talked it all over a long time before blowing out the light, but then the little window shut its bright eye, and the only life the mid-night stars saw in Fairfield was Miss Mattie, her elbow on the casement, looking far, far out into the tranquil night, and thinking mistily.
THE END
By Stewart Edward White