Brown swallowed something in his throat. “All right; I guess I can go,” said he. “To-morrow, that is. We can’t take pictures by moonlight; and the road’s better by daylight. Won’t you come out with me while I do my chores? We can—can talk it over.” In spite of his forced laugh there was undisguised entreaty in his look, and relief when Amos assented. He went first, saying under his breath, “I suppose this is how you want.”
Amos nodded. They went out, stepping down the narrow walk between the rows of hollyhocks to one side and sweet-pease to the other. Amos turned his head from side to side, against his will, subdued by the tranquil beauty of the scene. The air was very still. Only afar, on the river-bank, the cows were calling to the calves in the yard. A bell tinkled, thin and sweet, as one cow waded through the shallow water under the willows. After the dismal neutral tints of the prairie, the rich green of corn-field and grass looked enchanting, dipped as they were in the glaze of sunset. The purple-gray of the well-sweep was painted flatly against a sky of deepest, lustreless blue—the sapphire without its gleam. But the river was molten silver, and the tops of the trees reflected the flaming west, below the gold and the tumbled white clouds. Turn one way, the homely landscape held only cool, infinitely soft blues and greens and grays; turn the other, and there burned all the sumptuous dyes of earth and sky.
“It’s a pretty place,” said Brown, timidly.
“Very pretty,” Amos agreed, without emotion.
“I’ve worked awfully hard to pay for it. It’s all paid for now. You saw my wife.”
“Nice lady,” said Amos.
“By ⸺, she is!” The other man swore with a kind of sob. “And she believes in me. We’re happy. We’re trying to lead a good life.”
“I’m inclined to think you’re living as decently and lawfully as any citizens of the United States.” The tone had not changed.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Brown burst forth, as if he could bear the strain no longer.