“No,” replied Winfield, “she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm sorry she isn't well.”
He paced back and forth moodily, while Joe watched him in silence. “Well,” he said, at length, “I reckon I'll be movin' along. I just thought I'd tell yer.”
There was no answer, and Joe slammed the gate in disgust. “I wonder what's the matter,” thought Winfield. “'T isn't a letter, for to-day's mail hasn't come and she was all right last night. Perhaps she isn't ill—she said she cried when she was angry. Great Heavens! I hope she isn't angry at me!
“She was awfully sweet to me just before I left her,” he continued, mentally, “so I'm not to blame. I wonder if she's angry at herself because she offered to read the papers to me?”
All unknowingly he had arrived at the cause of Miss Thorne's unhappiness. During a wakeful, miserable night, she had wished a thousand times that she might take back those few impulsive words.
“That must be it,” he thought, and then his face grew tender. “Bless her sweet heart,” he muttered, apropos of nothing, “I'm not going to make her unhappy. It's only her generous impulse, and I won't let her think it's any more.”
The little maiden of his dreams was but a faint image just then, as he sat down to plan a course of action which would assuage Miss Thorne's tears. A grey squirrel appeared on the gate post, and sat there, calmly, cracking a nut.
He watched the little creature, absently, and then strolled toward the gate. The squirrel seemed tame and did not move until he was almost near enough to touch it, and then it scampered only a little way.
“I'll catch it,” Winfield said to himself, “and take it up to Miss Thorne. Perhaps she'll be pleased.”
It was simple enough, apparently, for the desired gift was always close at hand. He followed it across the hill, and bent a score of times to pick it up, but it was a guileful squirrel and escaped with great regularity.