"No," he said abstractedly, for he was thinking of other things.
"Jest so," retorted the old man promptly. Then, with a shrug: "Anyway, love letters are warm enough to dry most things. Say——"
"It was from my mother."
"Ah."
"And I want to ask you if you'll give me the afternoon off. I'd like to go across to the Raysun's."
The old man eyed him shrewdly.
"I didn't reckon to, lad," he said, after a moment's thought. "You see the seedin' needs to get on. But I guess you best go. Letters from your Ma generly need talkin' over with your best gal—'fore you're married."
The old man's quiet geniality was quite irresistible, and Frank thanked him warmly. The more surely because he had come very near to guessing the purpose he had in making this visit. But his purpose was rather in consequence of, than to discuss his mother's letter. It was a purpose he had impulsively decided upon for no better reason than that all subterfuge was utterly repulsive to him, and he felt that before it was too late Phyllis must be told the painful truth about himself.
In some measure his sudden decision comforted him, as he thought of the secret fashion in which it was demanded of him that he should visit his mother. At least there should be no such lack of openness between himself and the girl he hoped some day to make his wife.