ay or the other."

"And you can carry my basket if you want to," she said, adding
solicitously, "Unless it's too heavy when you already got your guitar
case to carry, Ramsey."

This thoughtfulness of hers almost overcame him; she seemed divine.
He gulped, and emotion made him even pinker than he had been under the
mayonnaise.

"I--I'll be glad to carry the basket, too," he faltered. "It-it don't
weigh anything much."

"Well, let's hurry, so's we can get places together."

Then, as she manoeuvred him through the little crowd about the wagon,
with a soft push this way and a gentle pull that, and hurried him up the
improvised steps and found a place where there was room for them to sit,
Ramsey had another breathless sensation heretofore unknown to him.
He found himself taken under a dovelike protectorship; a wonderful,
inexpressible Being seemed to have become his proprietor.

"Isn't this just perfectly lovely?" she said cozily, close to his ear.

He swallowed, but found no words, for he had no thoughts; he was only an
incoherent tumult. This was his first love.

"Isn't it, Ramsey?" she urged. The cozy voice had just the hint of a
reproach. "Don't you think it's just perfectly lovely, Ramsey?"

"Yes'm."

Chapter VII

The next morning Ramsey came into his father's room while Mr. Milholland
was shaving, an hour before church time, and it became apparent that the
son had someting on his mind, though for a while he said nothing.

"Did you want anything, Ramsey?"

"Well--"

"Didn't want to borrow my razors?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Milholland chuckled. "I hardly supposed so, seriously! Shaving is
a great nuisance and the longer you keep away from it, the better. And
when you do, you let my razors alone, young feller!"

"Yes, sir." (Mr. Milholland's razors were safe, Ramsey had already
achieved one of his own, but he practised the art in secret.) He passed
his hand thoughtfully over his cheeks, and traces of white powder were
left upon his fingers, whereupon he wiped his hand surreptitiously, and
stood irresolutely waiting.

"What is it you really want, Ramsey?"

"I guess I don't want anything."

"Money?"

"No, sir. You gay' me some Friday."

Mr. Milholland turned from his mirror and looked over the edge of a
towel at his son. In the boy's eyes there was such a dumb agony of
interrogation that the father was a little startled.

"Why, what is it, Ramsey? Have you--" He paused, frowning and wonderin