“N-nothing,” she sobbed, “only I—oh, Paul don’t go!”
He patted her red head tenderly; for a moment or two he found it difficult to say anything.
“There, Janey—don’t. I—and you’d better run on back, dear,” he said at last, stooping to pick up his bundle.
“No, mother said I could come—she said I could walk to the crossroads with you. And she said I was to give you another kiss for her—and tell you that she loved you—and Granny’s crying.”
“Is she?” said Paul. “Oh, Janey— Well, come along, kidlet.” He took her hand, and they went on slowly between the sweet-smelling fields that lay turning to gold under the August sun.
With his hand in hers, Janey seemed to feel comforted, but with every step Paul’s heart grew heavier.
“Do you think, Paul, it would have been different if your picture hadn’t burned up?”
“Why, Janey?”
“If you had won a prize?”
“I don’t think it would have won any prize. And—it did burn up, so there you are. Besides, it wasn’t as good as that old thing I did of Aunt Gertrude. Do you remember? That thing on the top of the flour barrel? That was much better—though I don’t know why.”