“It’s all mussed and dirty,” he said, in a sort of apology.
“That’s up to me,” cried Helen. “Anyway a woman’s curiosity don’t mind dirt.”
She smoothed the paper carefully as she paused at the foot of the pine. Bill looked around.
“Is this where you paint?” he asked.
Helen nodded. She was busy with the paper. Bill occupied himself by thoroughly entangling the legs of the folded easel, in an endeavor to set it up for her. He tried it every way without success, and finally desisted with a regretful sigh.
“Was there ever——?” he began.
But Helen broke in with a sharp exclamation, which promptly drew him to her side.
“This—this isn’t a love letter at all,” she cried amazedly. “It’s—it’s—listen! ‘Please have ten gallons of Brandy and twenty Rye laid in the manger in my barn. Money enclosed. O’B!’”
Helen looked up at the man beside her. All her laughter had gone. There was something like tragedy in her serious eyes.