“By the log across the path, that first day, when you were so cross to me.”
“I wasn't cross!”
“Yes you were—you were a little fiend.”
“Will you forgive me?” she pleaded, lifting her face to his.
“Rather!” He forgave her half a dozen times before she got away from him. “Now let's talk sense,” she said.
“We can't—I never expect to talk sense again.”
“Pretty compliment, isn't it?” she asked. “It's like your telling me I was brilliant and then saying I wasn't at all like myself.” “Won't you forgive me?” he inquired significantly.
“Some other time,” she said, flushing, “now what are we going to do?”
“Well,” he began, “I saw the oculist, and he says that my eyes are almost well again, but that I mustn't use them for two weeks longer. Then, I can read or write for two hours every day, increasing gradually as long as they don't hurt. By the first of October, he thinks I'll be ready for work again. Carlton wants me to report on the morning of the fifth, and he offers me a better salary than I had on The Herald.”
“That's good!”