ybe I'll take a day off myself," she said. "I'll be on hand next-day
mornin', if you want anything picked. Good-night."

That evening at ten Newell was driving home from the village, and he
marked her light in the kitchen. He stopped, vaguely uneasy, and walked
up the path to the side door, and as he came he saw the shades go down.

"Dorcas!" he called, at the door, "it's me, Newell."

Then he heard her hurrying steps. But instead of opening the door to him
she pushed the bolt softly, and he heard her voice in an inexplicable
mixture of laughter and confusion.

"I'm real sorry, Newell, but I can't let you in. I'm awful sorry."

"All right," he said bluffly, turning away, yet conscious of a tiny hurt
of pained surprise. "Nothin' wrong, is there?"

"No," came the laughing voice again, "there's nothin' wrong."

"That's all I wanted to know," he explained, as he went down the path.
"Seein' the light so late--"

And again the voice followed him.

"Yes, Newell, I'm all right."

Dorcas, an hour after, at her table ironing the dotted muslin she had
washed and dried before the fire, laughed out again. She had a new sense
of triumph, like a bloom upon the purpose of her life. At last she saw
before her a path quite distinct from the dull duties of every day.

When Clayton Rand drove up with his pair of sleek horses and the shining
rig that was admired by all the town, she went out and down the path
very shyly, and with a blushing sedateness becoming to her. Clayton saw
it, and his heart leaped with the vanity of knowing she was moved
because of him. But the cause was otherwise. Dorcas knew her hair was
beautiful, and that her skin, in spite of its tan, was sweetly pink; but
she also knew that the fashion of her sleeves was two years old, and
that no earthly power could bring the gloss of youth to her worn shoes
again. So she blushed and shrank a little, like a bride, and Clayton,
who saw only that her skirts fluttered airily and her hat was trimmed
with something soft and white, straightway forgot all the girls he had
ever seen, and wondered if his mother could fail to approve such worth
as this. And then again he began to talk about horses, and Dorcas began,
in her rapt way, to listen, and put in a keen word here and there.
Alida, she knew, had one idea of horses: that they were four-legged
creatures likely to run away, or to bite your fingers if you gave them
grass. It was easy to compete with her there, and also bec