“Well, don’t you ever think I’m proud of myself, Jeremiah Amidon!” She paused abruptly at the edge of a brook that tinkled musically on its way to the river. “I’m only just beginning to try to be self-respecting and decent and useful; I think it’s going to be a lot of fun if I ever get started.”
“Well, I hope to see you on the cars sometimes. I’ve got the same ticket, but I’m not sure it’s good on the limited. I’m likely to be chucked at the first tank.”
They jumped the brook and followed a cow path across a broad pasture, talking of old times on the Ohio, and of Farley, of whom Jerry always spoke in highest reverence, and then of his own prospects.
Both were subdued by the influences of the night. The stars hung near; it seemed to Jerry that they had stolen closer to earth to enfold Nan in their soft radiance. A new idea had possessed him of late. His heart throbbed with it to-night.
“In a place like this,” he began slowly, “you think a lot of things that wouldn’t strike you anywhere else.”
“It’s just the dear country lonesomeness. I come out here often in the evenings; used to in the winter, when the snow was deepest. I love all this—” She stretched out her arms with a quick gesture comprehensive of the star-hung fields.
Jerry’s dejection increased. The more he saw of Nan the less he seemed to count in her affairs. A Nan who tramped snowy fields and took counsel of the heavens was beyond his reach—immeasurably beyond.
“I don’t take hold of things the way you do, Nan. Being out here just makes me lonesome, that’s all. I’ve got to be where I can see electric signs spelling words on tall buildings. Just hearing that trolley tooting away over there helps some; must be because it’s going toward the lights.”
“If you feel so terribly, maybe we’d better go back!” she said tauntingly and took a step downward.
“Don’t do that again! If you leave me here in the dark I’ll be scared to death.”