glance at him through the kitchen window, heard men’s voices.
The door opened suddenly: very womanly she had grown! He felt himself going pale.
“You?—Addy!” she exclaimed, and stood motionless.
“Who?” called the farmer’s voice. Men’s low voices answered. Those low voices, curious and almost jeering, roused the tormented spirit in the visitor. Smiling brilliantly at her, he waited.
“Myself—why not?” he said.
The flush burned very deep on her cheek and throat.
“We are just finishing dinner,” she said.
“Then I will stay outside.” He made a motion to show that he would sit on the red earthenware pipkin that stood near the door among the daffodils, and contained the drinking water.
“Oh no, come in,” she said hurriedly. He followed her. In the doorway, he glanced swiftly over the family, and bowed. Everyone was confused. The farmer, his wife, and the four sons sat at the coarsely laid dinner-table, the men with arms bare to the elbows.
“I am sorry I come at lunch-time,” said Syson.
“Hello, Addy!” said the farmer, assuming the old form of address, but his tone cold. “How are you?”
And he shook hands.
“Shall you have a bit?” he invited the young visitor, but taking for granted the offer would be refused. He assumed that Syson was become too
