His clear face lifted, sun-brown and young and adoring. She had not

often seen men look at her thus. Certainly Jeff Saxton's painless

worship did not turn him into the likeness of a knight among banners.

Yet the good Geoffrey loved her, while to Milt Daggett she could be

nothing more than a strange young woman in a car with a New York

license. If her tiny gift could so please him, how poor he must be. "He

probably lives on some barren farm," she thought, "or he's a penniless

mechanic hoping for a good job in Seattle. How white his forehead is!"

But aloud she was saying, "I hope you're enjoying your trip."

"Oh yes. I like it fine. You having a good time? Well---- Well, thanks

for the books."

She was off before him. Presently she exclaimed to Mr. Boltwood: "You

know--just occurs to me--it's rather curious that our young friend

should be so coincidental as to come along just when we needed him."

"Oh, he just happened to, I suppose," hemmed her father.

"I'm not so sure," she meditated, while she absently watched another

member of the Poultry Suicide Club rush out of a safe ditch, prepare to

take leave for immortality, change her fowlish mind, flutter up over the

hood of the car, and come down squawking her indignities to the

barnyard. "I'm not so sure about his happening---- No. I wonder if he

could possibly---- Oh no. I hope not. Flattering, but---- You don't

suppose he could be deliberately following us?"

"Nonsense! He's a perfectly decent young chap."

"I know. Of course. He probably works hard in a garage, and is terribly

nice to his mother and sisters at home. I mean---- I wouldn't want the

dear lamb to be a devoted knight, though. Too thankless a job."

She slowed the car down to fifteen an hour. For the first time she began

to watch the road behind her. In a few minutes a moving spot showed in

the dust three miles back. Oh, naturally; he would still be behind her.

Only---- If she stopped, just to look at the scenery, he would go on

ahead of her. She stopped for a moment--for a time too brief to indicate

that anything had gone wrong with her car. Staring back she saw that the

bug stopped also, and she fancied that Milt was out standing beside it,

peering with his palm over his eyes--a spy, unnatural and disturbing in

the wide peace.

She drove on a mile and halted again; again halted her attendant. He was

keeping a consistent two to four miles behind, she estimated.

"This won't do at all," she worried. "Flattering, but somehow----

Whatever sort of a cocoon-wrapped hussy I am, I don't collect scalps. I

won't have young men serving me--graft on them--get amusement out of

their struggles. Besides--suppose he became just a little more friendly,

each time he came up, all the way from here to Seattle?... Fresh.... No,

it won't do."




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