“I’m glad to hear that—after what they told me about New York.”
“Humph!” The Yankee snorted. “New York ain’t in Massachusetts, young man. All sorts of people there. Can’t count on ’em!” Ma Johnson gently intervened.
“Reckon we have some troublemakers, too, even in New Bedford.”
“Ay, and I reckon we know how to take care of ’em!”
It was Indian summer in New England. The evenings were still long, with no suggestion of frost in the air. After supper they sat in the yard, and between long puffs on his pipe the host talked and gradually drew out the young man. Came the moment when he took his pipe from his mouth and sat forward on his chair, lips pressed together in a grim line.
“I cannot understand how such things be!” he said, shaking his head.
The women had gone inside. Lights shone in the cottage across the way, and on the other side of the white picket fence a girl laughed. Frederick stood up. Even in the dusk, Johnson was conscious of the broad shoulders and the long, lithe limbs. He was looking up at the trees.
“Almost—Almost I am afraid,” Frederick said.
“Afraid? Now? Your time to be afraid is gone. Now you are safe!”
“That’s it! I am safe. I’m afraid of so much happiness.”