The more I read of Peter’s play the more congenial I felt with Farrington.  I had enough education to see that it was a genuine literary achievement, but I had heart enough to know that something had to be done to rescue all his characters from the arctic region.  Could I do it single-handed even for a person I cared as much for as I did for Peter?  I decided that I could not, and that the only way I could prove my loyalty and affection for Peter was to abase myself before Sam Crittenden and his cruelty to me, and get his help.  Only for Peter would I have done such a thing, which in the end I didn’t have to do at all.

Since the night Sam refused me the use of his farm and put me out of his life for ever I had not seen him until by his own intention.  Or maybe it was Tolly’s.

“See here, Betty, what you need is a good fox or tango and you had better come to it up at Sue’s to-night.”

Tolly had broken in upon my despairing meditations over the way in which Peter’s hero talks wicked business and congested charity to the poor little heroine in the very first act while she is full of a beautiful affection Peter didn’t seem to see, and ready to pour it forth to the hero before he started out on a long life mission.  Maybe it was sorrowing with her at being thus suppressed by everybody that made me write her case to Peter with such fervor.  I had just finished the letter when Tolly came to my rescue with the offer of a nice warm dance to nourish me up.

“Don’t make me kidnap you, Betty; go fluff and rose up a bit,” he commanded, as he seated himself on the front steps with a determination which was as business-like as his management of the Electric Light Company.

“I think I had better go to Sue’s to thaw out some of my loneliness over this play,” I answered him as I looked up with desperation and a smudge on my face.  Then I went to my room and left Tolly alone with Peter’s poor little heroine.  “Say, tell the poet to get the man with the dinner-pail who is eating hunk sandwiches at lunch-time on the pavement in front of any construction job in New York to tell him what he did and said to his girl at the firemen’s ball the night before, and then translate it into some of this first-class poetry.  That’ll be a great play,” said Tolly, as I came down-stairs just as he had turned page twenty-five of Peter’s manuscript.  Tolly’s coarseness doesn’t affect me as it does Edith because there is always so much point to it.

“You don’t quite understand Peter and his play, Tolly, dear,” I said, with dignity, though I felt exactly the same way about it and hadn’t known how to express it in human interest terms as well as Tolly.

“I sure don’t,” answered Tolly, cheerfully, and not at all as if I had put him in his place in regard to his criticism of our epic.  “Come on; let’s hurry.  Everybody is waiting for us.”

It was good to be in a buzz of girls and men once more for the first time in two weeks since I settled down to do my worst or best by Peter, with my Grandmother Nelson’s garden-book locked up in the preserve-closet down in the darkest corner of the cellar, and Sam lost in the fastness of The Briers.