you."

"And you bought her a necklace, Gordon, her--"

All that he now desired was to get Lettice safely home. Another wave of
pain rose whitely over her countenance. "Come on, Lettice," he urged;
"just step into the buggy." He waved toward the vehicle, toward the
peacefully grazing horse, Mrs. Caley sitting upright and sallow.

"And take him right along with you," Meta Beggs added; "your money's tight
around his neck."

Resentment at the implied ignominy penetrated his self-esteem.

"We're going right on now, Lettice," he continued; "we must drive as
careful as possible."

"I don't know that I want you," his wife articulated slowly.

"You can decide that later," he returned; "we're going home first."

She relaxed her fingers, and dropped the pasteboard box on the turf. She
stood with her arms hanging limply, breathing in sharp inspirations. She
gazed about at the valley, the half-distant maple grove: suddenly the
youth momentarily returned to her, the frightened expression of a child
abruptly conscious of isolation in an alien, unexpected setting.

"Gordon," she said rapidly, "I had to come--find you ... something--" her
voice sharpened with apprehension. "Tell me it will be all right. It
won't ... kill me." She stumbled toward him, he caught her, and half
carried her to the buggy, where he lifted her over the step and into the
seat. A red-clad arm was supporting her on the other side: it was Meta
Beggs.

"You drive," he directed Mrs. Caley. He held Lettice with her face hidden
against his shoulder. The valley was refulgent with early summer, the
wheat was swelling greenly, the meadows, threaded by shining streams were
sown with flowers, grazed by herds of cattle with hides like satin, the
pellucid air was filled with indefinite birdsong. The buggy lurched over a
hillock of grass, his wife shuddered in his arms, and an unaccustomed,
vicarious pain contracted his heart. Where the fields gave upon the road
the buggy dropped sharply; Lettice cried out uncontrollably. He cursed
Mrs. Caley savagely under his breath, "Can't you drive," he asked; "can't
you?"

The ascent to the crown of the ridge was rough, but beyond, winding down
to the Greenstream valley, it was worse. The buggy, badly hitched, bumped
against the flank of the horse, twisted over exposed boulders, brought up
suddenly in the gutters cut diagonally by the spring torrents. Gordon
Makimmon forgot everything else in the sole desire to get Lettice saf