accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry.
He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into
the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that
restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart
forever?

Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder
and bits of the conversation broke in upon him.

"Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long
sweetening or short?"

"Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy,
what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry
b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?"

Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite.

The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after
trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her
guests.

"I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for
another one?"

"Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the
eager housewife.

Sandy looked at her and smiled.

"I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes."

When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette
developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the
men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of
questions.

After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog
of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling
lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale.

A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He
patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder.

"There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning."

"I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout
being in love."

Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart
knew of the depths through which he was passing.

"Do you love him very much?" he asked.

She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to."

"He's not worth it."

"He is!"

A strained silence, then he said:

"Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?"

"Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he
would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson."

"He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his
fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blo