A little later, as they walked hand in hand toward the house, he pointed toward the creek.
"You see, Phil, about your work, I've thought all that out. I want you to go on with it. I've planned a kind of studio for you over there, in that clump of trees on the edge of the Run. I'm going to build a little bungalow, all glass on the creek side, where you can study and write, while I'm off making the corn grow. And in the evenings we'll go out there and sit and talk. I've thought a lot about that."
"But, you goose, that won't be helping you any, the way a farmer's wife has to help her husband. I won't be of any use to you, writing pieces for editors to fire back at me."
"They won't send them back; and if they do, I'll punch their heads."
"And daddy can live with us, can't he—always, Fred? Where we are will be home for him!"
"Yes; of course, Phil. I've thought about that, too. I've thought about almost everything. And I'm not afraid of life, Phil,—not with you. Out here in the fields it's different from anywhere else, and easier. Those old stars are closer, some way, here in the country. You've got more room to think in, and it isn't a narrow life, but a broad one when you consider it. You've taught me to understand all that, Phil! I believe you feel a good deal about it as I do, and the work you want to do ought to be better for being done out here where the corn grows tall. We won't stay here always. We'll go off in the winters and look at the big world, and come back home to study it over. And we'll try to do a little good as we go along."
"Yes; we mustn't forget that, Fred."
His simple way of speaking of things that meant much to him had always touched her. Her pressure tightened on his hand and he bent and kissed her.
"But, Fred!" she exclaimed suddenly, as they loitered on, "Amy will be awfully cross. We'd planned to go abroad next summer, and he won't forgive me if I get married so I can't."