if we
honest loved, an' not be ashamed;--but as we don't, a thousand marriages
couldn't keep me from shrivelin' up whenever you looked at me! We'd
despise each other in no time," she added, with another forced laugh.

"I don't know," he murmured.

"Well, I do," she now exclaimed with her old time gaiety. "Stand right
still, an' shut yoh eyes, an' don't move till I say good night!
Promise?"

"What's the game?" he asked.

"Never mind! You do what I say!"

"All right, I promise," he smiled.

The seconds passed and he wondered what she was doing. He knew she could
not be very far away. Then there was a slight rustle and her lips
touched his cheek.

"This," she whispered, "is because for the first time in yoh life you've
got what Miss Jane calls grit. Don't move!" There was another pause, and
her lips touched his other cheek. "This," again she whispered, "means
the blind eyes over yonder are happy, 'cause you've made Nancy see. An'
this," she tenderly drew down his face and kissed his forehead, "is that
we'll be understandin' friends from now on till the day after never."

"Isn't there something else?" he pleaded.

"I reckon not," she whispered.

She must have moved silently, for in a few moments her voice called a
good night from the broken gate.

He opened his eyes then, and moved toward his patient horse. He had a
feeling that he may not have carried this interview gracefully; but he
had done it honestly, and at real personal cost. He began to wonder what
it might have cost Nancy--he had given that no thought. Were she a girl
of Jane's type, he suspected she would now be hating him. But she was
not like Jane; she was Nancy; and, even as his intuition whispered, her
cheeks were still flushed with a pleasant warmth of satisfaction. To her
it had been romantic and grateful. She seemed to feel that they were
honorably at quits.

CHAPTER XVI

A SPRINGTIME SANTA CLAUS

As May crept up the calendar the little schoolhouse became the center of
increased activity: commencement exercises were under daily rehearsal
and the light of excited interest shone in every face.

It was a heterogeneous flock which had answered the call of Jane's horn
eight months before: twenty-nine in all, ranging from children of eight
to a woman of thirty-five. Nor were their characteristics less diverse.
The tobacco-chewing, profane boy was there, with a stolen dirk thrust
into his trousers' band, suggesting a turbulent future;