“Still she didn't take her hand away last night, when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else, and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess.
“Carlton said she'd take the conceit out of me, if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter, still it doesn't matter, since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't, for what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow.
“How she lit on me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special! Jerusalem! I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl—there's no doubt of that.”
At this juncture, Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. “Mornin', Mr. Winfield.”
“Good morning, Joe; how are your troubles this morning?”
“They're ill right, I guess,” he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. “Want me to read the paper to yer?”
“No, thank you, Joe, not this morning.”
The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. “Ain't I done it to suit yer?”
“Quite so,” returned Winfield, serenely.
“I don't mind doin' it,” Joe continued, after a long silence. “I won't charge yer nothin'.”