away and followed him out of the house.

"Luther, will he die?" she asked.

"I don't know, Lizzie," Luther said quietly, not knowing what to say to
such a question, and too honest to evade.

At the time of the accident to the binder, when Elizabeth knelt, broken
with exhaustion and terror, looking at the man she loved who lay under the
mass of machinery with the colour of death upon him, no one but a blind
man could have mistaken the utter abandonment of her grief, and certainly
of all men Luther was not blind. Now he recognized the heartache back of
Elizabeth's question and with an instinct to cheer was almost persuaded to
answer in the negative. In his heart he thought Hugh would die. The
rapidly failing strength of the man indicated that he would do so unless
something came to buoy him up.

"I don't know, Lizzie," he added, as if squaring his conscience, "he looks
so weak and troubled like."

Luther realized the moment it was out of his mouth that he had said the
wrong thing. Elizabeth's lips grew white and she held her breath a moment
as if preparing to accept what she knew must be the truth.

"Lizzie," asked Luther gently, "would you like to talk to me about it?"

The girl's face tensed strangely and her quivering lips refused to do her
bidding for a full minute, the relief was so great.

"I--I came out for that," she said simply when she could speak. "It's so
good of you to understand and make it easy for me. I'll walk over toward
home with you."

They walked slowly through the barnyard, across the creek, and over the
pleasant pasture land. Neither spoke. Elizabeth, now that she had decided
to talk to Luther about the circumstances with which she contended, could
not bring herself readily to do so. Luther had always the insight of true
wisdom, which let others gauge their own inclinations. When they came to
the fence which was the boundary line between Luther's and John Hunter's
farms, they stopped. There was a line of willow trees running at intervals
down the fence, and Luther waved his hand in the direction of a shady spot
beside them.

"Set down, Lizzie," he said, seating himself half-facing her.

Elizabeth Hunter crumpled up on the grass with her back against a fence
post, and thought while Luther got out his knife and looked for something
to whittle.

"Tell me about it," he said at last. "You want to--and--and I'm a safe
person."

She looked up at him, glad that he had assumed it, and smoothed