A Spring Night

Author “In Search of Arcady”

IGHTY strange, to put it mildly!” Newlove commented aloud. And, giving the button of the apparently noiseless door-bell a second vigorous but futile push, he leaned back against the door and stared out into the wet blackness of the spring night.

The world was pulsing with rising sap and bursting bud, rejoicing in the rain storm that was at once gentle and fierce. Thomas Newlove threw back his head and drew in the essence of it all in great breaths, filling his big chest and sighing. It was wonderful, wonderful, the unknown East—New England—so jubilant in its final yielding to spring, after the tense winter; so different from the first magical rain-time of California, which but piles luxury upon luxury; more compelling, somehow, more intense. For sheer joy of the season's contagion, he laughed aloud, find, as the rain swept into his shelter, barked out a good-humored oath and vainly tried the silent bell again. Then he shouted, but the storm swept the sound from his lips.

Newlove looked ruefully in the direction which the hack that brought him from the station had taken in departure. Ten miles away, that station was, over pitch-dark, utterly unknown roads! What neighbors there were, and how located, it was impossible to guess, for no light showed in any direction, and he had no recollection of having passed one for the last mile or two on the drive out. Confound it all, why couldn't he arouse the folks? What did they mean by going to sleep like this, instead of being up to welcome him?

The wind was shifting, and the rain now swept in from the south, drenching every corner of the porch. It was impossible to remain there much longer. The devil take Jack Williams, with his failure to meet trains and his broken door-bell! Newlove took out a little pocket searchlight and looked at his watch. Eleven forty-five! Outrageous! Then he spread open the telegram which had greeted him on his arrival in New York. Perhaps he had misread it. But no, there were the instructions he had followed, clear and unmistakable:

Nice and cordial in intent, this pressing invitation to his college roommate's home; but if this was an Easterner's notion of hospitality at a country estate—well, Jack and his menials would hear what a Westerner thought of it, when they discovered him asleep on the brocaded sofa of the pink drawing-room in the morning; for he, Thomas Newlove, refused to be daunted by a closed door. If the ranch didn't welcome the traveler, he'd invade it, by thunder, that's what he'd do! He'd get in out of this wet, one way or another! With which determination he set about reconnoitering.

The porch was laden with old vines, from which came the perfume of honeysuckle. It was heady and sweet and sleep-inducing. Newlove turned his attention to the lock of the door, trying each of his keys in vain. Then followed an examination of the window fastenings. At first they all seemed as secure as the legitimate modes of entrance. But at last his searching hands fell upon a startling discovery—an empty space where a window-pane should have been—one of the side lights to the front door was standing wide open!

Newlove gave a low whistle, and then contemplated the space with satisfaction. There would be just room enough to gain his large frame admission. Cautiously he first placed his damp suit-case and golf-bag within, and next, pulling his hat well down over his eyes, struggled through into the dense blackness of the hallway.

The house breathed a quiet charm and sense of homeliness, even in the dark. Instinctively he felt that the hall before him was a wide one, more living-room than passageway, and that there would be large, easy chairs about to bump into. A white-railed staircase glimmered vaguely some fifteen feet ahead of him. There must be an electric-light switch somewhere. He would find that!

To look for it he flashed on his lantern, and out of the darkness sprang a lovely thing—a great bowl of windflowers, delicate and frail, their stiff little heads closed in sleep. It was as if he had turned his light upon a bit of sheltered woodland. A woman's work, undoubtedly! Yet Jack was not a married man, nor did he possess any female relations who lived with him, so far as Newlove was aware.

“Humph!” thought he. “That's funny! What else?”

He started forward to explore, but had not taken two steps when a sudden metallic “click” behind him drew him up short. Intensely startled, and more than half expecting to look down the barrel of a revolver, he turned to find that the window by which he had entered had mysteriously closed of itself. It was queer, deuced queer. The thing had been secure enough when he squeezed through, and must have been so afterward, else the impact of his entrance would have loosened it at once. Still, it was clearly the window which had made the noise, and, satisfied of this, he stepped forward again, noting as he did so a curious difference in the feeling of the floor beneath his feet. It gave him a creepy feeling. Confound it all! As if it wasn't enough to have to break open a place this way without being scared into the bargain, he thought crossly. And he began his search for the magical button in the wall which would reveal his surroundings. But there was no sign of any electric fittings, and after a few moments of fruitless maneuverings among the rightly predicted easy chairs, he brought up against a table bearing a fat and capacious oil-lamp.

“It's an old-fashioned house,” Newlove murmured; “they light with lamps! I'll simply have to find a sofa, with the flash, and bunk there. And, believe me, if I don't find a good sleeping-spot pretty damn soon … Great Scott! What's that?”

It was something in the nature of a sign-board, being about three feet high, resting on an easel which stood at the bottom of the staircase. Suddenly the sense of a pervading personality, charming, piquant, and elusive, which he had felt from the moment of his entrance, seemed to increase, as though this curious sign-board affair had some intimate association with it. Two long strides brought him to the thing, his light full on it. With a start he drew back, and then stepped near again, a grin spreading slowly over his bronzed face. In the spot-light was a string of large black letters which sprang at him with startling emphasis from a white background:

“Phew!” commented Newlove, with a long breath. “A woman!” The rules were carefully numbered, and printed in somewhat smaller type. good job for a female, he decided mentally. The author's wishes were explicit.

Newlove drew a hand across his dazed eyes. “Well, I'll be—gosh-dinged! he gasped, influenced, perhaps, in his choice of expletives, by the conception of Mary-Laetitia that floated through his brain—a prim old maid, New England to a degree, of course, yet full of dry humor and frankness too. Below her signature was a further direction; an arrow pointing to the right, and the succinct information—

Newlove snapped off his light and stood thinking there in the dark. Who the devil was Mary-Laetitia Williams? Why did Jack consent to this extraordinary performance? Was Jack there at all? But of course he must be—for how about his telegram? … It was all most puzzling. And yet suppose there was actually only a lone woman in the house! Should he attempt to escape, despite her assurance that to do so was impermissible? For surely he would be able to get out! Yet, no! It might be as well to do as she commanded, for even if this Mary-Laetitia were alone in the place, she seemed to be a person of uncommon resource and character, and might have almost anything in reserve for those who ignored or disobeyed her rules. Newlove was in—he might as well stay in quietly, and see the thing through!

He switched on his light again, and attentively regarded the arrow below the sign “Dining-room this way.” And as he looked, he began to be aware of a hollow sensation in his middle. Dining-room! What the deuce did it mean? Was a cold supper left ready every night, or what? It was worth investigating, at any rate! Turning his light in the direction indicated, he made his way toward the cavernous gloom of an open door. And soon the gleam of old mahogany and the twinkle of silver and glass showed him that he was at his goal. But no supper appeared on the polished table—only another bowl of flowers. They were pink windflowers again: a strange bloom to his Western eyes.

On the sideboard were two more signs, simple and lucid:

said one, with an arrow pointing downward to the left-hand drawer. Above the right-hand drawer stood the other:

“For Pete's sake! I wonder if that's so!” muttered Newlove curiously.

Diffidently opening the first division, he examined the markings on several of the handsome pieces which lay in tidy array. Then he opened the second drawer and repeated the operation.

“Well, Mary-Laetitia's told the truth in this case!” he commented, laying the objects back in order. “Darned if they're not divided just as she said!”

He turned the light about to other parts of the room, his curiosity and sense of excitement growing momentarily. Revelations came thick and fast. On a small side-table stood an enormous coffee-urn, presumably of silver, but of a pattern as obsolete as it was hideous. Its fat and ugly body was ill-balanced on thin legs, and about its “neck” was strung a placard with these words:

Newlove smothered a laugh and turned to other quarters. The notion of any sane burglar attempting to carry off that white elephant without the aid of a derrick and a motor-truck was too absurd! His light swept the mantel-shelf. There was an old clock upon it whose voice had been stilled these many years, but whose simple beauty remained. There were a pair of luster candlesticks and two lovely Dresden figures—a shepherd with a sentimental lamb; a shepherdess with an impossible pannier of flowers—or was it a lunch-basket? The two were delicate and old—almost priceless. Behind them stood a sign. It read:

“I'll bet she used to day-dream over those two when she was a kid,” murmured Newlove. “They are regular little images of springtime romance!”

Smiling, he turned away. He was beginning to have a very real liking for Miss Mary-Laetitia Williams, and to feel as if he knew her rather well. He was pleased with this touch of sentiment on her part. It gave her another virtue: she had sentiment, and humor, and a lively imagination! He summed them up with a growing sense of pleasure. He wished she would hurry down, and he peered eagerly toward the hall; but as yet there was no sound of her advent.

“Some old girl!” he thought. “I wonder what the deuce she looks like! Maybe there's a picture around here.”

His light swept on to another arrow-marked sign:

“Gee whiz! No need for getting lost!” muttered Newlove. “Guess I'll have to take a look!”

The arrow directed him through a short and narrow passage into a low-ceilinged portion of what must have been the original house, for it had a strange, musty odor, such as only ancient New England dwellings possess. The furnishing was old, too, in the room he entered: a stiff little parlor which seemed to have preserved intact its original decoration. The straight-backed chairs were of the Puritan ancestry which had created them; there were rag rugs upon the painted floor, and a highboy of great beauty stood against one wall. Over the wide mantel-shelf, between the prim ornaments at either end, was something which gleamed. Newlove tilted the light a trifle higher, and suddenly there arrested him three words, embossed on a shield of gold:

“The old girl's portrait!” exclaimed Newlove. “Over the mantel in the best parlor, of course!”

His light ran around over the oval frame, and then rested on the canvas itself. At sight of it, he could scarcely suppress the cry of admiration which sprang to his lips. For there, peering sweetly down the long vista of the years, was the youth of Mary-Laetitia: an exquisitely beautiful and delicate girl, with thin, chiseled features, a mouth like an opening rosebud, a skin like the windflowers that she still loved, and a pair of half-sad, half-laughing gray eyes under a tangle of red-gold curls. One long, slender hand, on which glowed a great emerald ring, clasped her filmy white garments at her bosom. Newlove heaved a tremendous sigh.

“And yet she is still Mary-Laetitia Williams!” he exclaimed softly. “Lordy, how did she escape matrimony!”

It certainly was a mystery. He stood off a little way, still keeping the portrait under the light, and nodding his head slowly as he surveyed it. Jove! She had been wonderful! A creature to arouse the least susceptible of men. So delicate, so elusive, so quick with understanding! It seemed almost as if she must speak in another instant—speak some witty line which would at once shame his dulness and delight it; ridicule his ridiculous emotion and yet quicken it.

Bah! What nonsense to feel this way about a mere portrait: a thing of paint and canvas! Why, she was over seventy by now! With the glorious hair grown gray and thin—covered by a wig, perhaps! And the lovely skin … dreadful, dreadful, that such things must be! He found himself passionately wishing that he had been born three-quarters of a century earlier. The thought of what she must be now, was a torment.… What was he doing, letting go of himself like this? What morbid nonsense! Resolutely he snapped off the light, turned away, stumbled over a chair, turned the light on again, and went back to the portrait.

“If only she were a woman,” he muttered. -And then he remembered anew that she was a woman, still alive, still full of warm humor and cleverness. A wave of normality swept over him, and he put the light out. What a jolly old girl she was! Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour of one, and an ambitious cockerel crew, suspicious of the advent of dawn. Then, with a start, Newlove aroused himself. Surely that was a step on the staircase—a voice speaking!

Half dazed, he tried to switch on his little light in order to make his way back to the hall from which the sound came. But to his utter disgust the thing failed him. He pressed the spring again and again, but to no avail; the battery had expired, leaving him stranded in the dark! Everything was immensely quiet, save for the faint ticking of the unseen clock. Outdoors, the spring storm still sighed, though more gently now, as if wearied by its turmoil. He had heard her, she was undoubtedly on the stair, and somehow or other he must get back to the hall. He felt through his pockets hastily, but not a match was to be found. So, groping and stumbling against the furniture as he went, he made the best of his difficult way toward the dim light which now glimmered like a firefly ahead of him.

In the last doorway he paused, and there, on the bottom step of the staircase, stood a scarcely discernible shrouded figure, who carried a little electric spot-light exactly like the one he had been using. The place might almost as well have been in utter darkness for all the little round spot of light revealed of Miss Williams, while Newlove underwent the disconcerting experience of having the light flashed full upon him. Almost blinded by the sudden glare upon his face, he could only discern that Mary-Laetitia was small of stature, and that her voice, though tremulous, was still sweet.

“Oh!” said the voice weakly. “Are you the burglar?”

“At last I have arrived!” returned Newlove.

The light was held upon him steadily.

“Have you read the sign?” the voice behind the light quavered.

“Of course—with interest.”

“Have you gathered up everything you want?” the voice went on, gaining strength with usage, but still shaky.

“Spunky little old girl!” thought Newlove. “I do wish I could see her!” Then he spoke aloud. “I have followed the signs with great care, madam,” he announced, “And you certainly have some delightful possessions. But I have not yet been directed to your jewel-case. I'd like to have that, please. Don't you think you are making a mistake in trying to withhold it?”

The situation was delicious. It was only with the utmost difficulty that he managed to keep his countenance severe under the searching light.

“The idea!” said the voice, the tremolo almost vanquished by indignation. “Haven't you enough without that?”

“Jewelry is my specialty,” explained Newlove. “But I promise if I don't like the things—if they are some queer old stuff—I'll give them back. On the word of a burglar!”

There followed a brief period of hesitating silence. From somewhere in her direction came a faint odor of wood violets.

“Well?” he demanded at length. “Don't let me scare you too much. Have you got heart trouble, or anything?” he added anxiously.

“No!” came the voice, in angry denial. Then: “You seem a most unusual burglar. Have you a revolver?”

“No—er, yes! In my suit-case!” replied Newlove confusedly. “But I promise not to use it! Come now, where are your jewels?”

A long-drawn sigh from behind the light answered his question; then the voice spoke again, coolly: “Very well! If you are selfish enough to insist! I will trust your word about giving them back. As a matter of fact, I have them right here under my arm in case you demanded them. But it's a great waste of time, for I know you won't like my trinkets.”

He could feel that she looked straight at him as she gave him the little casket, and as she did so, he seemed to see himself as she beheld him—wet, muddy, disheveled; with low-drawn hat shielding all the upper portion of his face—an alarming figure. Even the hand he extended to take the trinkets was grimed from the journey and his burglary! For a moment he felt ashamed, and then, touching the catch, opened the case, revealing a trayful of ornaments. Old-fashioned brooches—one with a lock of gray hair in it, and the inscription “Our Aunt Mary” on the border. A simple pendant, an old watch and chain—a man's, and of generations past. A couple of inexpensive modern necklaces, and—the emerald ring from the portrait in the parlor! That was all. With a rough gesture he closed the case and returned it.

“Those things are no good!” he said gruffly. “You keep them, miss, … I say! Look out, you'll drop it!”

And indeed, in her confusion at actually having her treasure returned to her, she had let go of the little spot-light. On the instant he caught it, and switched its glow full upon her.… Then for an instant the vision held him. There before him stood the portrait from the drawing-room: a girl of perhaps twenty, with every detail just as the canvas had shown her—the skin like windflowers, the half-opened rosebud mouth, the great eyes half laughing, half sad beneath a tousled mass of red-gold curls.

“Are you Mary-Laetitia Williams?” he gasped.

“Of course!” she answered.

And at that second the little electric lantern, even as his own had done, blinked and went out, leaving them in total darkness.

Newlove trembled for the first time in his hardy existence; trembled from head to foot like a young tree shaken in a spring storm. The scent of violets grew stronger, seeming to emanate from her, swirling about her white draperies there in the dark. What would she do? Would she shut herself away from him again? No, no! She must not do that! He uttered a little cry, inarticulate, eloquent, and stretched out a hand toward her, but she was gone like a vision, and there was nothing but the empty blackness … though not for long.

A match crackled somewhere near, and before he rightly knew what was happening she returned, a lighted candle in one hand. He could see her flower-face again! It was a miracle, a miracle! There she was, no dead portrait, but a living woman, beautiful, and, all things considered, extraordinarily self-possessed.

“I thank you for allowing me to keep my jewels,” she said, “particularly that emerald ring. It belonged to the aunt who left me this place, and I was fond of her.”

“Your aunt!” exclaimed Newlove. “So that is it! You look just like her!”

“I look—what on earth!” she began, dumfounded. Then a light broke. “Oh, you saw the portrait!”

“Yes, I—I saw it!” he answered lamely.

She scrutinized him with greater care, and Newlove began to be more and more sorry for his appearance. Confound it! Why hadn't he shaved that morning—on the train or—or somehow? To the eyes of old Aunt Mary it would not have mattered, but this unexpected Mary-Laetitia was another story!

“You are a very unusual burglar!” she asserted for the second time.

“Do you know so many?” he could not help but ask.

“No,” she answered, unsmiling; “but I have always had a theory that they had ethics like any one else—'honor among thieves,' you know—I made those signs with that idea in mind. And although you have so far justified my belief, I confess I am a little surprised by the fact. Why did you break into my house?”

“I was wet and tired and hungry,” he answered simply.

He looked right into those great eyes of hers as he said it, devoutly hoping that she would see he spoke the truth. And she did.

“I was sure there was some good reason!” she cried with a sort of triumph. “Have you a wife and starving children?” she added.

“Heavens, no!” disclaimed Newlove. “This was a purely personal burglary.”

She considered deeply for a moment. “Are you still hungry?” she asked.

“Very!” he admitted promptly, “though not nearly so tired as I was. All these unexpected—er—encounters have vanquished my fatigue.”

“Well,” she began, “I'll get you something to eat.” She held up a hand as he started a faint protest. “The idea is really selfish on my part. You see, I'm taking a course in practical psychology, and my intention in coming down-stairs was to talk to you. Aside from being a thief, you seem trustworthy, and, as you have read on the notice, I have always hoped that if a burglar did break in, he'd be the sort I could question.”

“I'll be glad to tell you anything I can about the business,” Newlove found himself saying.

She nodded and, shielding her candle, motioned him to follow her. He obeyed, feeling as though in a dream.

“Are you quite sure you don't want my jewel-case?” she said over her shoulder.

“Ah—er—let's leave that until later!” he suggested. Great Scott, what a girl! he added mentally. Cool as you please, levelheaded, afraid of nothing, clever, beautiful—he stumbled as he followed her.

“Come this way,” she directed, passing through a door behind the staircase.

Newlove complied, and in another instant found himself in a raftered kitchen, as charming and unexpected in character as the rest of the house. Mary-Laetitia motioned him to a seat at the white-covered table, and busied herself about setting him out a meal. For several moments there was a silence, and his head swam as he watched her every movement. What she put before him he scarcely knew, save that it must be exquisite—food for the gods, and that there was a heavenly steaming beverage—presumably a sort of super-coffee. She was marvelous—the most perfect woman he had ever met—and she thought him a common thief! How on earth could he undeceive her without making her irreparably angry at the trick played upon her—how could he contrive to meet her again on his own ground? The outlook seemed hopeless, and he groaned inwardly. At length she appeared satisfied with what she had laid out, and, drawing up a chair at the opposite end of the table, sat herself down and rested a pair of rosy elbows on the white oilcloth.

“Now eat!” she commanded. “I thought you were hungry!”

“I—I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, galvanized into life. “I am still a little dazed with the way things are going. Will you not eat also?”

“Yes,” said she, “I'll have something. But you go ahead while I ask you a few questions. To begin with: where are you from originally?”

“The West,” he said. “California. Do you know it?”

“No.”

Newlove leaned forward eagerly, forgetting everything for the moment save that her eyes were like southern skies in April, her hair like the hearts of golden poppies.

“It's God's country!” he smiled. “So big and simple and fertile. You can see so far, so very far, and the face of nature is naked—great rolling mountains, where the modeling is unhidden by trees. Mountains that are green and purple and violet, whose valleys fill with blue shadows at twilight. There's nothing out there to cramp a person—and everything you give to the earth is returned to you a hundredfold.”

She regarded him with wondering eyes. “You can feel and say all that, and yet you are a thief, an outcast!” she exclaimed. “Why, it's more like listening to a poet.… Have you robbed a great many houses?”

“No,” said Newlove.

“I was sure you hadn't!” she cried. “I was certain! For you don't seem a bit hardened. How long have you been a burglar?”

“Not very long,” Newlove assured her.

“How many places have you broken into before this?”

“None,” he told her.

She was held in an astonished silence, during which she drew off a bit, looking at him piercingly. “Well, I believe you!” she said at last. “And you said that you did it this time because you were cold—no—wet and hungry and tired. I don't think you would have done it if you hadn't been misled somehow!”

Her eyes were shining stars now, and suddenly she leaned over the table toward him. “Oh!” she cried with an appealing gesture of her pretty hands, “you must not go on in this way! You must stop before it is too late! You are too fine a person, I am sure, not to be able to stop yourself. How glad I am that it was to this house you came, and—and me! Now if I give you some money and help you to get work, won't you promise to live honestly instead of going on with burglary? Will vou promise?”

It was all that Newlove could do to keep himself from seizing those appealing hands of hers, but somehow he managed to leave them alone and make her a reply. “I will swear, if you like, never to steal as long as I live!” said he, earnestly. “You have given me a new reason for trying to lead a decent life. But I will get the work and the money without taking them from you, dear lady.”

“That will be even better!” she murmured, “and—and I am very glad.”

She did not look at him as she said it, but somehow the very fact that she turned away her head made his heart leap. A sweet sense of intimacy had grown up between them, swift-coming and mysterious as river haze at dusk, and as blinding. He felt he had known her a thousand years—had always known—yes, and loved her! Would she ever look back at him? Was it because she feared the look in his eyes, feared, perhaps, her own response to it, that she stared so fixedly at the fast-lightening gray of the dawn in the window? Who and what was she, anyhow, so young, and so alone?

“Miss Mary-Laetitia,” said he, “where is Jack Williams?”

She looked swiftly around, surprised. “My cousin Jack!” she exclaimed. “Why, he lives ten miles over the mountain.” Suddenly she smiled. “Did you think it was Jack Williams's house you were breaking into?”

“I certainly did,” Newlove admitted.

Mary-Letitia laughed—a very pleasant sound to hear. “Poor man!” she said. “How disappointed you must have been to find a cottage. Why, Jack is a millionaire!”

“So I had gathered!” commented Newlove dryly.

They laughed together then, becoming the more closely bound by their mirth. Newlove arose from his place and came over to her end of the table, looking down at her from his great height.

“Morning is nearly here,” said he, “and I must go. But before I leave, I want to ask you a question or two for the ease of my soul. I hope you will answer.”

She only nodded in reply. “Are you always alone here?” he asked. “It is so very far from being safe for you.”

“No,” she replied. “There is usually my cook. But she is away with her daughter, who is ill.”

“I am glad you do not stay alone,” said he; “and now there is something else. I—I must ask it, though I fear it is going to seem—unusual. Are you engaged to—to be married, or anything?”

“No,” she said. And somehow she did not show surprise at all.

“Well—forgive me for going on—” stammered Newlove, “but if you were to get married, would he—would you require a man to be very rich, or if he had just a pretty good ranch—that is”

“Rich!” she said simply. “As if that would make any difference! Why, if I loved a man, it wouldn't make any difference if he were a millionaire or—or a—a”

“Or a burglar?” he supplemented, very low.

“Or a very poor man who tried to live honestly,” she corrected, her eyes averted.

The invisible net that had been weaving itself about them from the first, tightened suddenly. She was so very near him, and she did not stir. The scent of violets which wafted from her was like wine to him. The room spun giddily about.

“Oh, Mary-Laetitia!” he cried brokenly.

“Oh—don't! We must be mad!” she said, turning to him, her eyes like two flaming stars. How long they stood so, without touching, he never knew. But when she turned away at length, it was sunrise, roseate and glowing, full of the sound of birds and the urge of the clean spring wind. The storm had vanished as though by magic, leaving the world wet and shining.

“I will go now! The sooner to return,” said he.

She nodded dumbly. And then in silence she led him through the house of mingled gold and shadows, through the little passageway, past the ridiculous sign at the staircase, across the wide hall, and out on to the broad, rain-washed veranda, and the threshold of the glittering new world. At the top step he turned and kissed her hand, humbly.

“I may return?” said he.

She closed her eyes as she replied. “I don't see how I can say yes, and yet I do say it!”

“I'll find a way!” he cried. “I'll find a way!”

And then he set off down the brown path, his step swinging, his shoulders squared, as if to conquer the earth. At the gate he turned and waved to her as she vanished into the hall. Then he struck off into the highway. Hardly had he gone a dozen paces when her voice called to him, sharp and clear, with laughter in it.

“Thomas Newlove, Thomas Newlove! You have forgotten something!” she cried.

Running back with all his might, he found her at the door. In one hand was his suit-case, in the other his bag of golf-clubs, both plainly marked with his name.

For a moment they stared at each other open-mouthed, hesitating, and then Thomas Newlove did it.

“They are too heavy for me to carry the ten miles to Jack Williams's place!” he cried gladly. “I'll get him to lend me a trap, and drive over for them this afternoon. Will that way do, Mary-Laetitia? Will that way do?”

“Oh, yes!” said Mary-Laetitia Williams. “I think it will.”