BY WAY OF CONTRAST
"I wish't you could stay to supper!" said Mary Sands.
"I wish't I could!" said Calvin. "I want you to understand that right enough; and I guess you do!" he added, with a look that brought the color into Mary's wholesome brown cheek. "But they plead with me kind o' pitiful, and—honest, I'm sorry for them two women, Miss Hands. They don't seem to be real pop'lar with the neighbors—I don't know just how 'tis, but so 'tis,—and they kind o' look to me, you see. You understand how 'tis, don't you, Mary—I would say Miss Hands?"
"I expect I do, Mr. Parks!" said Mary gently, yet with some significance.
Calvin looked down at her, and his heart swelled. An immense wave of tenderness seemed to flow from him, enfolding the little woman as she stood there, so neat and trim in her blue cashmere dress, her pretty head bent, the light playing in the waves of her pretty hair.
"For two cents and a half," Calvin Parks said silently, "I'd pick you up and carry you off this minute of time. You're my woman, and don't you forget it!" Then he spoke aloud, and his voice sounded strange in his ears.
"You and the boys," he said, "are always askin' me for stories. If—if I should come and tell you a story some day—the very first day I had a right to—that the boys warn't goin' to hear, nor anybody else but just you—would you listen to it, Miss Hands?"
Mary's head bent still lower, and she examined the hem of her apron critically. "I expect I would, Mr. Parks!" she said softly.
But when Calvin had driven off, chirrupping joyfully to the brown horse, Mary's little brown hands came together with a clasp, and she looked anxiously after him.
"If they don't get you away from me!" she said. "Oh! my good, kind,—there! stupid dear, if they don't get you away from me!"