“Glen!” It was the simplest of salutations; nothing but her name, yet it restored instantly the sense of impending climax. It was in his voice and in his eyes, and she answered with his name, softly, on a caught breath. “Will you wait? I will walk home with you.”
“I will wait.”
“I won’t be a minute—just to report to Mr. Carey on the Beulah-land cotton—” He went into the owner’s office as swiftly as old Ben Birdsall had done, and the long and disappointing day was redeemed.
“Luke Manders, he skeers me,” Gloriana-Virginia whispered, peering round her frame.
“Oh, Glory, dear, you mustn’t say that! Why, Luke is your best friend! He’s trying all the time to make things better and easier for you—for you and all the children, and all the hands—and he has such fine plans for a rest house and playroom and shorter hours—only, of course, that’s a secret, and you mustn’t tell any one, not even M’Liss’ or grand-pap.”
“I won’t name hit to nawbuddy,” the child promised obediently. “But I am jes’ pintly skeered of Luke Manders.”
“But you mustn’t be,” Glen insisted warmly. “It’s just his way, Glory—he seems stern, but he isn’t, really. He works so hard, and he hasn’t time to stop and talk with you as I have, but he feels just the same as I do, Glory. You believe me, don’t you, honey?”
“Yes, me’um.” She frowned over a broken thread and her lean fingers twisted it capably. “I b’lieve everything yo’all tell me. But I am jes’ pintly skeered of Luke Manders.”
Glen laughed and hugged her again. “But I tell you you mustn’t be! I’ll bring the fairy tales to-morrow, Glory.”
“Cross yo’ heart, hope-never-to-see-the-back-o’-yo’-neck?”