n' in me,' I says, 'that made him not want to have a good time
with me, and maybe now 'twon't be so.' And when I see you goin' on the
same old way, workin' from mornin' till night, I says to myself,
'Something' 's got to be done. I ain't goin' to have 'Delia put upon
like this.' 'Tain't because it's 'Delia. I ain't so terrible fond of
'Delia, only we went to school together. But don't you see, Oliver, I
couldn't say it for myself? No girl could. But I can for 'Delia."

"Well," said Oliver, "well." He was entirely amazed. Then as he looked
at the field, a general maxim occurred to him, and he remarked, "The
farm's got to be carried on."

"No, it ain't, either," said Isabel, with a passionate earnestness, "not
as you do it. Other folks don't work themselves to death the way you do,
and you're forehanded too. It's because you like it. You like it
better'n anything else. You were born so, and it's just as bad as bein'
born with an appetite for drink or anything else."

"I never knew you felt so, Isabel," he said gravely. "I don't see why
you didn't speak on 't before when--old times."

"I'd rather have died," she declared passionately. "Any girl would.
'Delia would. Maybe she'll cry all the afternoon if she finds she ain't
goin'; but if you call over there Saturday night, butter won't melt in
her mouth. She won't tell you how 'shamed she is before folks to think
you didn't take the trouble to go with her. Anyways, she won't if she's
any kind of a girl."

Oliver had plucked some wisps of grass from the edge of turf under the
tree, and he was wiping his hoe thoughtfully. Isabel began to laugh. She
was trembling all over from old angers and the excitement of her new
daring, and she kept on laughing.

"One thing," she said, as she brushed away the tears with an impatient
hand, "'Delia's mother's got her spy-glass on us this very minute. What
under the sun she thinks I'm here for I don't know and I don't much
care. You can tell her anything you're a mind to. Only you come. Come
now, Oliver, you come!"

Oliver quite meekly hung up his hoe in the branches and waited for her
to lead the way.

"I've got to ketch the colt," he said. "Mother took Dolly to go after
aunt Huldy. Mother's always made a good deal o' the picnic."

There was a beat of hoofs upon the road, and Isabel, her present mission
stricken from her mind, turned to see. It was Jim Bryant, driving by to
call for her.

"My soul!" she said, under her breath.