e. But as Peter says, A late spring never
deceives....

I thought I had offended Peter for life. But when he appeared late
this afternoon and I asked him why he had kept away from me, he said
these first few days naturally belonged to Dinkie and he'd been busy
studying marsh-birds. He looked rather rumpled and muddy, and
impressed me as a man sadly in need of a woman to look after his
things.

"Let's ride," said Peter. "I want to talk to you."

I was afraid of that talk, but I was more afraid something might
happen to interfere with it. So I changed into my old riding-duds and
put on my weather-stained old sombrero and we saddled Buntie and
Laughing-Gas and went loping off over the sun-washed prairie with our
shadows behind us.

We rode a long way before Peter said anything. I wanted to be happy,
but I wasn't quite able to be. I tried to think of neither the past
nor the future, but there were too many ghosts of other days loping
along the trail beside us.

"What are you going to do?" Peter finally inquired.

"About what?" I temporized as he pulled up beside me.

"About everything," he ungenerously responded.

"I don't know what to do, Peter," I had to acknowledge. "I'm like a
barrel without hoops. I want to stick together, but one more thump
will surely send me to pieces!"

"Then why not get the hoops around?" suggested Peter.

"But where will I get the hoops?" I asked.

"Here," he said. He was, I noticed, holding out his arms. And I
laughed, even though my heart was heavy.

"Men have been a great disappointment to me, Peter," I said with a
shake of my sombrero.

"Try me," suggested Peter.

But still again I had to shake my head.

"That wouldn't be fair, Peter," I told him. "I can't spoil your life
to see what's left of my own patched up."

"Then you're going to spoil two of 'em!" he promptly asserted.

"But I don't believe in that sort of thing," I did my best to explain
to him. "I've had my innings, and _I'm out_. I've a one-way heart, the
same as a one-way street. I don't think there's anything in the world
more odious than promiscuity. That's a big word, but it stands for an
even bigger offense against God. I've always said I intended to be a
single-track woman."

"But your track's blown up," contended Peter.

"Then I'll have to lay me a new one," I said with a fine show of
assurance.

"And do you know where it will lead?" he demanded,

"Where?" I asked.

"Straight to me," he said as