He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. "Be you goin' up to
Miss Hathaway's this mornin'?"
"Why, I don't know," Winfield answered somewhat resentfully, "why?"
"'Cause I wouldn't go--not if I was in your place."
"Why?" he demanded, facing him.
"Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick."
"Sick!" repeated Winfield, in sudden fear, "what's the matter!"
"Oh,'t ain't nothin' serious, I reckon, cause she's up and around. I've
just come from there, and Hepsey said that all night Miss Thorne was
a-cryin', and that this mornin' she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She
don't never eat much, but this mornin' she wouldn't eat nothin', and she
wouldn't say what was wrong with her."
Winfield's face plainly showed his concern.
"She wouldn't eat nothin' last night, neither," Joe went on. "Hepsey
told me this mornin' that she thought p'raps you and her had fit. She's
your girl, ain't she?"
"No," replied Winfield, "she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm
sorry she isn't well."
He paced back and forth moodily, while Joe watched him in silence.
"Well," he said, at length, "I reckon I'll be movin' along. I just
thought I'd tell yer."
There was no answer, and Joe slammed the gate in disgust. "I wonder
what's the matter," thought Winfield. "'T isn't a letter, for to-day's
mail hasn't come and she was all right last night. Perhaps she isn't
ill--she said she cried when she was angry. Great Heavens! I hope she
isn't angry at me!
"She was awfully sweet to me just before I left her," he continued,
mentally, "so I'm not to blame. I wonder if she's angry at herself
because she offered to read the papers to me?"
All unknowingly he had arrived at the cause of Miss Thorne's
unhappiness. During a wakeful, miserable night, she had wished a
thousand times that she might take back those few impulsive words.
"That must be it," he thought, and then his face grew tender. "Bless her
sweet heart," he muttered, apropos of nothing, "I'm not going to make
her unhappy. It's only her generous impulse, and I won't let her think
it's any more."
The little maiden of his dreams was but a faint image just then, as he
sat down to plan a course of action which would assuage Miss Thorne's
tears. A grey squirrel appeared on the gate post, and sat there, calmly,
cracking a nut.
He watched the little creature, absently, and then strolled toward the
gate. The squirrel seemed tame and did not move until he was almost near
enough to touch it, and then it scampered only a little way.
"I'll catch it," Winfield said to himself, "and take it up to Miss
Thorne. Perhaps she'll be pleased."
It was simple enough, apparently, for the desired gift was always close
at hand. He followed it across the hill, and bent a score of times
to pick it up, but it was a guileful squirrel and escaped with great
regularity.