"What's that?" I said.
"I 'd like ter call you 'Happy', if you don't mind."
I know I turned white, but I controlled myself. Was it possible he knew! It could not be. I dared not assume that he knew and refuse him. I made an effort to answer in my usual voice:
"Of course I don't, Cale—only, I hardly deserve it; all I 've done is just in 'the day's work', you know."
"Not all," he said, putting down his emptied bowl and turning to the door; "no wages thet I ever heard of will buy good-will an' the happiness you 've put inter all this work."
"Oh, Cale, I don't deserve this—" But he was gone without the usual good night to any of us.
"You do too," said Jamie shortly, and, reaching for his pipe, went off into the dining-room.
Mrs. Macleod laid her hand on my shoulder. "They mean it, Marcia; good night, my dear."
For the first time she leaned over and kissed me. I ran up to my room without any good night on my part. I needed to be alone after what Cale had said. Did he know? Could he know? Or was it merely chance that he chose that name? Over and over again I asked myself these questions—and could find no answer.
Late at night I made ready for bed. I drew the curtains and looked out. The window ledge was piled two inches high with snow; against the panes I saw the soft white swirl and heard the hushed, intermittent brushing of the drifting storm.