"How did you know?"
"Guessed it," she replied, with a little lift of the eyebrows; and then stooped to pick up the armful of dry sticks she had gathered.
"Let me have them." He stepped forward to take the wood.
"Why should you?" she said, without offering to relinquish them. "I prefer to carry my own sticks—then I don't have to build fires for other people." He laughed, and followed her up the path toward the shack.
"Let us sit down here." She led the way to a homemade bench in the open. "Daddy has had a hard day and has gone to bed, and I don't want to disturb him. He's very tired and has been upset over this lease business."
That was an opening, but before he could take advantage of it she abruptly changed the conversation:
"But you haven't told me why you didn't bring your fiddle this time. I'd love to hear it on a night like this." Dusk was coming swiftly and the stars had begun to glimmer.
"Oh, I don't carry it round as a business," he answered. "Fact is, until the other night I had not played it but twice in eight years."
"Why?" She turned to him with curious interest.
"It hasn't usually brought me good luck."