Part 6 (2/2)

She's with a fussy woman, a doctor's wife, a sort of companion, I believe. I should think so! Anybody'd like to be her companion. Well, sir, I'm just getting on to the beauty of this place. I never saw such gra.s.s, and between here and the station there's a thousand colors growing out of the ground. Huh!” he grunted, ”and I'm just beginning to remember them. Old fellow, I guess the little talk we had to-night has done me good. Yes; and what's the use in worrying? Things are going to come out just as they are--they always do--and all the worry in the world won't help matters. I think you are right about the Yankee.”

”Children of fate, gathered from the four corners of the world, and planted here,” said Milford.

”I guess you are right. Well, I'm going back to town Monday and do a little hustling. I've got to. There's no two ways about it. I'll turn back here. Glad I met you again. So long.”

CHAPTER VI.

THE ”PEACH.”

Milford was at the dinner table, talking to Blakemore, when a young Norwegian woman entered the room. Blakemore nudged him. He looked up and quickly looked down. He heard a woman say, ”Sit here, Gunhild.” He heard her introduced as Miss Strand.

”Isn't she a peach?” Blakemore whispered.

”What did you say, George?” his wife asked, picking at him.

”I didn't say anything.”

”What was it you whispered?”

”About a peach,” the boy blurted. ”I want a peach. Maw, give me a peach.”

She commanded him to hush; she raked the wayward flax out of his eyes, and straightened him about in his chair. George shook with the abandoned laughter of a man's gross mischief. His wife did not see anything to laugh at; she thought it was impolite to whisper. Mr. Milford was not laughing. No, Mr. Milford was not. His face wore a look of distress. He shot sharp glances at the Norwegian girl. He heard her voice, her laugh.

A moment ago he draped Mrs. Blakemore with an overflow of sentimental sympathy, but now his soul was as selfish as a hungry wolf. He had talked with pleasant drollery. Now he offered nothing, and cut his answers down to colorless brevity. Mrs. Stuvic came in and stood near him. He was silent under her Gatling talk, chill-armored against her fire. She said she would introduce him to the Norwegian girl, and he flinched. He excused himself, got up, and went out. He walked as far as the gate opening into the grove, stood there a moment, turned and came back to the veranda.

”He was. .h.i.t quick and hard,” said George to his wife, as Mrs. Stuvic left them. ”She's a stunner, and she stunned him.”

”George, please don't. She may remind him of some one, that's all. Why, he's engaged, and is working----”

”That's all right. I said she hit him, and she did. Hit anybody.”

”George!”

”Well, that's what I said. I can't help it.”

”I despise her.”

”Of course, but she's a stunner all the same. But come, now, don't look that way. I'm not in love with her.”

”I'm not so sure about it. You called her a 'peach',” she said, helping the boy out of his chair, and telling him to run along.

It was too much to ask her not to suspect him, now that he was determined not to be cast down by business troubles. She had buoyed him with her sympathy, and it was natural that she should resent his notice of the young woman, if not his good humor. But after a lowly wallow in melancholy, a sudden rise of spirits is always viewed with suspicion by a woman. It is one of the sentimental complexities, of her nature. She looked at him with eyes that might never have been soft. No doubt there was in George's breast a strong cast of the rascal. He was not a stepson of old Adam, but a full blood. He knew, however, the proper recourse, and he took it. He began to fret over his vanished business, and, forgetting the ”peach,” she gave him her sympathy.

Milford, meanwhile, was slowly striding up and down the veranda. Mrs.

Stuvic came out, followed by the Norwegian.

”She didn't want to meet you, Bill, but here she is.”

<script>