a few short days ago.  Miss Greenough kept telling Mabel and me all over Europe to look at everything as material to build nests of pleasant thoughts for our souls to rest in, as Ruskin directed in the book she had.  I’ve made one that will last me for life of Peter, who is the most beautiful man in the whole wide world; also of the yellow shade on the Astor lamp, the fountain, and the best chicken sandwich I ever ate.  It will be a warmer place to plump down in than most of the picture-galleries and cathedrals I had used for nest-construction purposes at Miss Greenough’s direction.

Yes, I drew my hand away from Peter’s, but a little thing like that would never stop a poet; and before the waiter had quite swept us out with the rest of the tea paraphernalia to make way for that of dinner he had made me see that I was positively necessary to his career, especially as both his father and Mabel are so unsympathetic.  It is a great happiness to a woman to feel necessary to a man, though she may not enjoy it entirely.

“Oh, I know I can write it all—­all that is in my heart if I feel that it is—­is for you, dearest dear Betty,” was the last thing that Peter said as he put me on a train headed for the Harpeth Valley that night.

I didn’t answer—­I don’t know that I ever did answer Peter anything, but he never noticed that when he thought of how my loving him would help out with the play.

Just here I was musing so deeply on the intricacies of love that I nearly ran over a nice, motherly old cow that had come to the middle of the road with perfectly good faith in me when she saw me coming.  And as I rounded her off well to the left again my thoughts skidded back to Sam and the way he had treated me as less than a heifer calf after I had not seen him for a year, and she had just seen him that morning at feeding-time.

“Head off that saucy young cow, indeed!” I sniffed, as I ran the car into the side yard between my home and the old Crittenden house.

“I wonder if he really expected me to be waiting there in that lane for him?” I questioned myself.  And the answer I got from the six-year-old girl that is buried alive in me was that Sam did expect me to do as he told me, and that something serious might happen if I didn’t.  As I turned Redwheels over to old Eph, who adores it because it is the only one he ever had his hands on, I felt a queer sinking somewhere in the heart of that same young self.  I always had helped Sam—­and suppose that unspeakable animal had got lost to him for ever just because I hadn’t done as he told me!  I reached out my hand for the runabout to start right back; then I realized it was too late.  The night had erected a lovely spangled purple tent of twilight over Hayesboro, and the all-evening performances were about to begin.