"So your friend isn't crazy," he said tentatively, as he tried to assist
her over it.
"That depends," she replied, drawing away from him; "you're indefinite."
"Forgot to wet the rag, didn't we?" he asked. "I will gladly assume the
implication, however, if I may be your friend."
"Kind, I'm sure," she answered, with distant politeness.
The path widened, and he walked by her side. "Have you noticed, Miss
Thorne, that we have trouble every time we approach that seemingly
innocent barrier? I think it would be better to keep away from it, don't
you?"
"Perhaps."
"What initials were those on the boulder? J. H. and--"
"J. B."
"I thought so. 'J. B.' must have had a lot of spare time at his
disposal, for his initials are cut into the 'Widder' Pendleton's gate
post on the inner side, and into an apple tree in the back yard."
"How interesting!"
"Did you know Joe and Hepsey were going out to-night?"
"No, I didn't--they're not my intimate friends."
"I don't see how Joe expects to marry on the income derived from the
village chariot."
"Have they got that far?"
"I don't know," replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting a
confidence. "You see, though I have been in this peaceful village for
some little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between
'walking out, 'settin' up,' and 'stiddy comp'ny.' I should infer that
'walking out' came first, for 'settin' up' must take a great deal
more courage, but even 1, with my vast intellect, cannot at present
understand 'stiddy comp'ny.'"
"Joe takes her out every Sunday in the carriage," volunteered Ruth, when
the silence became awkward.
"In the what?"
"Carriage--haven't you ridden in it?"
"I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the 'Widder's,' but
if it is the conveyance used by travellers, they are both 'walking out'
and 'settin' up.'"
They paused at the gate. "Thank you for a pleasant afternoon," said
Winfield. "I don't have many of them."
"You're welcome," returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great
distance.
Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. "Miss Thorne," he
said, pleadingly, "please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in
your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of
the dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give me
half a dozen feathers to play with. You'll come to visit the asylum,
sometime, when you're looking for a special, and at first, you won't
recognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll be
miserable all the rest of your life."
She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive
tone of his voice pierced her armour. "What's the matter with you?" she
asked.