"You see,
he'll get old and--and have no one to look after him."
"He will."
"And no home."
"Well, in a sense none," corrected the philosopher, smiling.
"But really, you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you
know, Miss May."
"Yes," she whispered just audibly.
"And all your terrors are before me."
"Well, unless----"
"Oh, we needn't have that `unless,'" laughed the philosopher
cheerfully. "There's no `unless' about it, Miss May."
The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the
philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and, at the
thought of what lay at her tongue's tip, her face grew red. But
the philosopher was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm
contemplation on the gleaming paddock.
"A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure," said he.
Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without
speaking she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping.
The philosopher heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass
of the orchard; he watched her for a few moments.
"A pretty, graceful creature," said he, with a smile. Then he
opened his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a
careful forefinger to mark the fly leaf.
The sun had passed mid-heaven, and began to decline westward
before he finished the book. Then he stretched himself and
looked at his watch.
"Good gracious, two o'clock! I shall be late for lunch!" and he
hurried to his feet.
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