ck to guess."

"Is it because you don't want to be seen with me?"

"Yes. Those women talk."

"But haven't they--haven't they any faith in their kind?"

"Not much," she said frankly.

"But why should you care what they say?"

She looked back at him. "I mean that you are so far above them," he
added. "You are worth all of them put together."

"It is very kind of you to say so. But I am not."

"I would swear it on a stack of Bibles."

"Your oath would not be taken. But let us not talk about it. You do not
know what you say when you praise me. I don't place myself above them. I
know myself." She halted, turned about and held forth her hand. "See, I
have worked in the potato field. I have been a laborer."

"I am a laborer now," he said as they walked on. "There's no disgrace in
work."

"Not for a man, not for a woman, but in a field with rough men--" she
shrugged her shoulders.

"But the rough men--they had no effect on you," he said, almost
pleadingly. "What effect could they have?"

"I was very young. Even at school I had not forgotten their oaths. My
uncle sent me to school. He was a poor man, but he sent me."

"Didn't he run a hotel at one time?" he asked.

"Yes, out in Dakota. I worked for him between terms. There were many
Norwegians about, and I learned English slowly. But this is of no
interest to you."

"Yes, it is--the keenest sort of interest. I mean I like to hear it.
What became of your uncle?"

"He is a gripman on a cable train in the city. One of these days I am
going to pay him back. And I am going to pay Mrs. Goodwin, too. I will
be her companion as long as it pleases her, and then I must find work. I
think I can teach drawing in the country. I could do nothing at it in
town. Now, you see, I must be careful not to have any talk. I can take
care of myself anywhere, in a potato field or in the woods, but I must
not distress Mrs. Goodwin. This is the road."

"Wait a moment. I feel more at liberty to talk to you."

"Now that you find out that I have been a laborer? I do not like that. I
wish you had not said it."

"Wait. No, not that, but because we are more of a kind in a way--we both
have an object. I am going to pay a man. That's the reason I dig in the
hot sun."

"Are you so honest?"

"No, I'm worse than a thief. Don't go--just one moment, please. Sometime
I may tell you. They think I like to work, but I hate it. In my thoughts
I have committed a thousand murders with my hoe. Let