“Maybe not—you may git leave and come to see us.”
He shook his head——“Not yet awhile.”
His parcels lay before him, but she did not expect him to go. He was leaning across the counter, staring at her with big, solemn eyes, and she knew that she liked his face, broad and ruddy as a September moon, that she liked the whole sturdy set of him.
“Stay and have a bit of supper wud me, Tom.” It was quite unconsciously that they had become Tom and Thyrza to each other.
The colour burned into his cheeks, but he shook his head.
“No, thank you kindly. I’ve got to git back hoame. I’ve a dunnamany things to do this last evenun.”
“Then come on your fust leave.”
“Reckon I will——Oh, Thryza!”
His hunger had outrun his shyness. He was trembling. She had lifted her hand to smooth back the soft fuzz of her hair, which in the dusk had become the colour of hay in starlight, and as she dropped her hand, he caught it, and held it, then kissed it. It was warm and wide and soft and rather sticky.