Pauline gave him her hand. It was quite wonderful how he soothed her, how her fear seemed to drop away from her, how contented and almost happy she felt.
“You are very strong, aren’t you?” she said. “You are very, very strong?”
“I should about think I am. I can lift a weight with any man in England, cut up a sheep with any man in existence, run a race with any farmer of my age. Strong! Yes, you are right there, missy; I am strong—strong as they’re made.”
“Then you are what I want. You will help me.”
The farmer opened the hall door with his latch-key. Nancy had been in bed for an hour or more. The farmer unlocked the door which led into the kitchen.
“The parlor will be cold,” he said, “and the drawing-room will be sort of musty. We don’t use the drawing-room every night. But the kitchen—that will be all right. You come right into the kitchen, Miss Pauline, and then you’ll tell me.”
He took her into the kitchen, lit a big lamp which hung over the fireplace, and poked the ashes in the big stove.
“You do look white and trembly all over. Shall I call Nancy to see you, miss?”
“Please, please do.”
Farmer King went noisily upstairs.