er to explain herself, and presently she did
so.

"I might decide to make my home here," she went on. "That is, if I could
get some one to help me with the farm."

There was no intimation of coquetry in the remark; merely simple fact. But
the words wrought a miracle in the face of the man beside her.

"Do you like it that much?" he demanded eagerly.

"I love it!"

"Miss Webster has a fine place," ventured Martin at length.

"Both of them are fine old places."

He nodded.

"But yours has been kept up better than ours," continued Lucy. "You see,
Aunt Ellen isn't strong like a man; and besides, she hasn't studied into
new ways of doing things as you have. That's the interesting part of
farming, I think, to use your brains and make two things grow where only
one grew before. If I were a man----"

She broke off, embarrassed by her own girlish enthusiasm.

"What would you do?" inquired Martin eagerly.

"I'd do with our farm what you've done with yours. I'd get new tools, and
I'd find out how to use them. It would be fascinating. But a woman
can't----"

"She can read just the same."

"I haven't a man's strength," returned Lucy, shaking her head gravely.
"It's such a pity."

"Maybe not."

The words slipped from his lips before it was possible for him to recover
them. He flushed.

"What!" exclaimed Lucy.

"Maybe it's as well for you to stay as you were made," he explained in a
strangely gentle voice.

The girl turned her head away. They had reached the foot of the Webster
driveway, and unbidden the horse halted. But as Lucy prepared to climb out
of the wagon, the man stayed her.

"I reckon there's some place I could turn round, ain't there, if I was to
drive in?" he said recklessly.

"Oh, there's plenty of room," Lucy answered, "only hadn't you better drop
me here? My--my--aunt is at home."

"I don't care," Martin retorted with the same abandon. "I ain't goin' to
have you plod up that long driveway in the broilin' sun--aunt or no
aunt."

He laughed boyishly.

"It's awfully good of you. But please, if you mind coming, don't; for
indeed I----"

"You ain't your aunt," asserted Martin with a shy glance into her face.

Lucy met the glance with a blush and a whimsical smile.

"No, I'm not," she responded, "and sometimes I wish you weren't your
father and your grandfather."

"What do you mean?"

"Because if you were just _you_, you'd be more forgiving--I know you
would."

She saw him bite his l