Yes, Tim," I said shortly. "Why did you choose me instead of a lad
like Tim?"

"Mark, I care for you more than anyone else in the world," said Mary.

"But do you love me?" I asked quickly.

"I think I do," she said. But reaching up, she turned my collar again
and buttoned my coat against the storm.

XIV

Tim was home in three days. His few months of town life had wrought
many changes in him, and they were for the better. I was forced to
admit that, but I could not help being just a little in awe of him. He
was not as heavy as of old, but there was more firmness in his face and
figure. Perhaps it was his clothes that had given him a strange new
grace, for in the old days he was a ponderous, slow-moving fellow. Now
there was a lightness in his step and quickness in his every motion.
Had I not known him, I should have seen in the scrupulous part in his
hair a suggestion of the foppish. But I knew him, and while I liked
him best with his old tousled head, and tanned face, and homely hickory
shirt, I felt a certain pride that he had taken so well with the world
and was learning the ways of the town as well as those of the field and
wood. His gloves did seem foolish, for it was a bitter December day
when the blood had best had full swing in the veins, but he held out to
me a hand pinched in a few square inches of yellow kid. The grasp was
just as warm though, and I forgave that. When he threw aside his silly
little overcoat and stood before me, so tall and strong, so clean-cut
and faultless, from the part in his hair to the shine on his boot-tips,
I cried, "Heigh-ho, my fine gentleman!"

Then he blushed. I suspected that it pleased him vastly.

"Do you think it an improvement?" he faltered, standing with his back
to the fireplace and lifting himself to his full height.

Before I could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a
knock, and old Mrs. Bolum ran in. When she saw him, she stopped and
stared.

"Well, ain't he tasty!" she cried.

[Illustration: Well, ain't he tasty.]

Then she courtesied most formally. "How do you do, Mr. Hope?" she said.

"And how is Mrs. Bolum?" returned Tim gravely, advancing toward her
with his hand outstretched.

The old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually
accorded only to the preacher, and held it out. Tim seized it, but he
brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in
one mighty embrace.

"You'll spo