“I’ll give her time to think before I see her again,” Jarvis decided, as his swift-stepping bays carried him along through the April rain. He dropped the window of his brougham and drew in deep satisfying breaths of the moist air. He was glad that she had not yielded supinely, as a weaker woman might have done. There was to his mind something heroic, splendid in her attitude as she defied him. For the first time in his life, Stephen Jarvis felt the stir of half-awakened passion; and the savage within his breast, never wholly eliminated or even tamed by an imperfect civilization, exulted at the thought of the imminent conflict of wills, the flight, the pursuit, the inevitable capture.

“I’ll give her time to think—to be afraid!” he repeated; “then——”

The blood hammered in his temples and involuntarily he clenched his strong hands, as if already crushing that weaker woman’s will and subduing it to his own.

But Barbara Preston was not thinking of the fact that Stephen Jarvis had asked her to be his wife. Being a woman, and, moreover, hard driven by cruel necessity, she might have been pardoned, if for a moment she had allowed her thoughts to linger upon the interview which had just ended. She might even have recalled with a certain speculative interest the luxurious interior of the carriage into which he had stepped and the smooth roll of the wheels which had borne him away, safe shut from the wind and the weather. So might she be lifted and sheltered from the bleak peltings of poverty, and life become a smooth progression instead of a painful pilgrimage. The girl sat quite still by the window looking out through misty panes into a mistier world, and only vaguely aware of dripping lilac sprays, ruddy with swelling buds, and of the flash of wet brown wings athwart the gray sky.

Stephen Jarvis, master of fate, and thrilling with the clash of his will upon hers, could hardly have known that the ghost of another man stood between him and the object of this new, urgent desire of his. He would have laughed the shadowy presence to scorn had he known it.

Yet it was this mere shadow of a man which chained Barbara’s thoughts while the April rain softened the landscape to a soft green blur. After all it was but natural that her one pitiful little love story should come back to her now, even to a vision of David Whitcomb’s eager face, his dark impatient eyes, and tossed hair, and the strong clasp of his hand upon hers in the dusk of the summer twilight.

It was Jimmy who had come between them; little motherless Jimmy, then a baby a year old, with big appealing eyes under a fluff of soft yellow hair, and a voice sweeter than any bird’s. All the woman’s heart in her had gone out to the helpless little creature who nestled in her arms at night, and whose eyes and voice followed her as she went about her work by day. This in the days when her father, grown suddenly old and apathetic, had begun to shut himself up in his library, for what purpose Barbara did not guess, at first. When she did know it was too late. The leaves of the book had been long closed and sealed, but the heart within her shivered at the remembrance of what was written there.

“If you really loved me,” David had said hotly, “you would not let anyone or anything come between us.”

She told him that she could not go to him over the bodies of a sick father and a helpless child. And since he had asked this of her, she did not, indeed, love him.

After this stormy scene—the last between them, since David Whitcomb had gone away, no one knew whither, nor indeed cared, since he was young and friendless and poor—Barbara had cried herself to sleep for many successive nights, quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping child. But one does not weep overlong at night whose brain and hands and feet are employed in the daytime. Only the beggared rich may give themselves to the indolent luxury of grief. After many nights of weeping followed by days of anxiety and uncounted labors, the pain of that parting subsided to a dull aching memory, which wakened once to cry out bitterly when she heard that he had been seen on a ship bound to the Yukon region in the early days of the gold fever. Many perished along the trail that year. It was rumored that David Whitcomb was among the number. No word ever came back to contradict the rumor, which after the lapse of months was accepted as a fact, and so—forgotten.

It was a long time—as youth measures time—since she had thought of David Whitcomb. Now she deliberately travelled back over the years between, and stood looking at her anguished young self, torn between love and duty, and at her one lover, who was not noble enough—she saw this with mournful certainty now—to help her lift and carry her heavy burden. Nevertheless she forgave him—as she had done hundreds of times in the past, excusing him tenderly, as a mother might have done, for his hot young selfishness, which refused to share her heart with a dying man and a helpless little child.

“I am glad,” she said aloud to the shadowy presence of her one lover, “glad that I did not yield.”

But her face was grave and sorrowful as she rose to answer a gentle knock at the kitchen door.

Peg Morrison stood there under the shelter of an ancient green umbrella, his puckered face smiling and healthily pink against the pale green of the outside world.

“I lef’ the Cap’n a-studyin’ over his book,” he chuckled, as he stepped into the kitchen, carefully wiping his feet on the braided rug inside. “He takes to vallable info’mation as the sparks fly upwards, an’ I’m glad to see it. Thinks I, as I looked at him settin’ down improvin’ maxims in red ink, this is a good time to talk over the situation with Miss Barb’ry.”

Barbara drew a deep breath.

“Come in,” she said briefly.

Then, as Peg seated himself in a wooden chair, ceremoniously arranging his coat-tails on either side, she added, “There isn’t much to say.”

“Wall, I’ve been thinkin’ fer quite a spell back that mebbe you’d like t’ lease th’ farm to me, ’stid o’ my workin’ it on shares, as heretofore. I’m——”

“But you haven’t had any share, Peg,” Barbara said, with a shade of impatience. “And that is why I have felt so—so unwilling to have you stay here and work, when I couldn’t possibly pay you what I knew you were earning.”

Peg struck one heavy palm upon his knee before he answered, his kindly face drawn into myriad comical puckers.

“Now, look-a-here, Miss Barb’ry,” he began. “You an’ me’s argued this ’ere question over more’n once. If I don’t get my share I’d like to know who does? I git m’ livin’, don’t I? An’ I git free house-rent, don’t I? An’ them two items, livin’ an’ house-rent, ’s ’bout all mos’ folks git. W’y, Miss Barb’ry, I live luxurious to what lots o’ folks do. And then ag’in you mus’ remember that I ain’t a reelly d’sirable farm laborer. I’m gittin’ ’long in life, an’ I can’t put in the kind and description o’ a day’s work folks’ll pay good wages fer. I’ll bet you——”

And the old man raised his voice to the argumentative pitch commonly employed in heated controversies around the stove in Hewett’s grocery.

“I’ll bet you a dollar an’ a half ’at I couldn’t git a place on a farm ’round here to save my neck! I’ll bet I’d git turned down quicker’n scat ev’ry place I’d try. ‘What!’ they’d say, ’ol’ Peg Morrison wants a place? That ol’ coot? Why, he ain’t wo’th his victuals!’ ’Tain’t reelly fur f’om charity, Miss Barb’ry, fer you to keep me here, givin’ me all the veg’tables an’ po’k I want, with now an’ then a fresh egg, er a—chicken. Sakes alive! I tell ye I’m grateful of a winter night when I creep under that nice patchwork quilt you give me ’at I’m workin’ fer a lady—on shares.”

Barbara laughed, an irrepressible girlish laugh, even while she shook her head.

“I couldn’t pay you for what you’ve done for Jimmy and me since—since father died, and—before, too. And I can’t thank you, either. I couldn’t find words to do it if I tried.”

“Thank me!” echoed the old man exuberantly. “Say, excuse me fer appearin’ to smile, Miss Barb’ry.” His voice grew suddenly grave. “I guess ther’ ain’t any pertickler use in quarrellin’ ’bout it, after all. I’ll do what I can fer you an’ the boy—bein’ a poor shakes of a laborer—jes’ ’s long ’s I live, an’ you c’n d’pend upon it. But now what do you think ’bout leasin’ th’ farm—say, fer a thousand dollars?”

Peg’s eyes grew round, and he gasped a little at the magnitude of the proposition.

“I’ve got a dollar or two laid by fer a rainy day, an’ I’ll put that down in advance,” he went on, with a chuckle, “an’ the way I’ve figgered it I’ll make big money on the deal. W’y, look-a-here,” and he drew a soiled newspaper from his pocket, “I come ’cross this ’ere article th’ other day. I’d like t’ read t’ you what it says on the subjec’ o’ onions. ‘Thirty-three acres o’ land in onions netted John Closner of Hidalgo, Texas, ’leven thousan’ dollars!’ Hear that, will ye? He says he perduced thirty-six carloads off’n his farm—more’n a carload t’ an acre!’ Hold on! that ain’t all—’course that’s in Texas. But listen t’ this, Miss Barb’ry——”

“But, Peg, there isn’t any use of talking,” interrupted the girl, “the mortgage is going to be foreclosed the first of June, unless I——”

“Foreclosed—eh? Foreclosed!” echoed the old man. “Wall, I was ’fraid of it when I seen his buggy here yist’day an’ ag’in t’-day. Farmers ’round here say they hate th’ sight o’ that red-wheeled buggy worse’n pison snakes. It gene’ally means business o’ th’ kind they ain’t lookin’ fer. Say! I wisht I’d got a-holt o’ this ’ere article on onion-growin’ before. I reelly do. Jes’ listen t’ this: ‘Onions are profitably grown in th’ north, also. Ebenezer N. Foote of Northampton, Mass., has perduced av’rage crops ’s high es nine hunderd an’ ten bushels t’ th’ acre! He says he expects to raise that to twelve hunderd! The annual value of his crop ranges f’om five hunderd to six hunderd dollars per acre!’”

Peg’s voice swelled into a veritable pÆan in a high key; his face glowed with the ecstasies of his imaginings. He carefully folded the newspaper and stuffed it into a capacious pocket.

“Now, y’ see,” he went on oratorically, “exclusive o’ the orchards, which had ought to net us at least five hunderd dollars this year, we could put in, say, twenty acres o’ onions, at five hunderd dollars per acre, that would net us—l’me see, five hunderd dollars times twenty acres ’ud make. Here, lemme figger that out.”

The old man fumbled in his vest pocket for a stubbed pencil.

“I ain’t th’ lightnin’ calculator you’d expect fer such a schemin’ ol’ cuss,” he murmured apologetically, as he wet the lead preparatory to computation.

Barbara smiled. “It would be ten thousand dollars,” she said. “But, Peg, don’t you see——”

“Ten thousand dollars! Whew! I guess that ’ud make a mortgage look kind o’ sick, wouldn’t it? We’d ought to hold on a spell longer an’ give onions a try.”

“But we can’t, Peg. It’s only six weeks before the first of June, and I’ve only twenty dollars in the world.”

Barbara leaned back in her chair, her face relaxed and weary and unutterably sad.

“You must look for another place right away, Peg,” she went on, “I’ll try and find one for you. Then, if I can get a school, or—some sort of work. I don’t care much what it is, if it will keep Jimmy and me.”

“The’s a whole lot o’ money in p’tatoes, too,” grumbled Peg, his anxious blue eyes on her face. “I’d ought to ’ave sowed peas an’ oats on that hill lot las’ fall an’ ploughed ’em in this spring. It says in this ’ere article on big crops that’ll grow p’tatoes like all possessed. I wisht I’d come acrost th’ inf’mation b’fore.”

“Mr. Jarvis says the farm is worn out,” Barbara said, a growing despondency in her voice. “He says the orchards are worthless, too; they are old.”

“Shucks!” exploded Peg. “‘Course Jarvis’d talk like that when he’s gittin’ it away f’om you fer nothin’ like its value. I’ll bet he’d have another story to tell ef anybody was to try ’n buy it of him. Values has a way o’ risin’ over night like bread dough once Stephen Jarvis gits a-holt o’ a piece o’ prop’ty.”

“He asked me to marry him,” said Barbara abruptly. Then bit her lip angrily at the old man’s look of amazed incredulity. “I’m sure I don’t know why I told you, only I—haven’t anyone to speak to, and—no one to advise me.”

Peg’s face grew suddenly grave.

“Don’t you be afraid I’ll mention it, Miss Barb’ry,” he said gently. “‘Course I was kind o’ s’prised—at first. But I don’t know’s I be, come t’ think o’ it. He asked you to be Mis’ Jarvis? Wall! You goin’ to do it, Miss Barb’ry?”

“He said he would give me the farm,” Barbara went on slowly, “to do as I liked with. I could—give it to Jimmy.”

She looked at him with a child’s unconscious appeal.

“Do you think I ought to—to marry him, Peg?”

The old man was still eyeing her soberly, even wistfully.

“I’ve knowed you sence you was a little girl no higher’n my knee, Miss Barb’ry,” he began. “I’ve seed you grow up. An’ I’ve seed you go through some pretty hard experiences. Now, I ain’t the kind to talk very much ’bout my religion, an’ the’s times when I don’t ’pear to have a nawful lot of it; but the’s a God that hears an’—an’ takes notice. That much I’ve found out, an’ ef I was you I’d go to headquarters an’ git th’ best advice. But I’ll say this, ef the farm is wore out,—es he says,—it ’pears t’ me he’s askin’ a pretty high price fer th’ prop’ty. He wants your youth, Miss Barb’ry, an’ your pretty looks, an’ your life. An’ es fer the Cap’n—Wall, I’d ruther not d’pend too much on th’ Hon’rable Stephen Jarvis, when it comes t’ th’ Cap’n. That’s the way it looks to me. ’Course I don’t p’tend to be a good jedge o’ what’s best in th’ world. I don’t look like it, do I?”

He glanced down at his patched and faded clothes with a cheerfully acquiescent smile.

“I’ve a notion,” he went on, “that the Lord’ll advise ye ’long th’ same lines ’s I hev. But don’t take my word fer it.”

“None of my prayers have been answered,” Barbara said, her red lips setting themselves in obstinate lines. “I’ve given up expecting anything so foolish. I prayed to have father get well, and he—died.”

“But he got well,” put in Peg quietly. “You c’n bet he did. Mebbe the Lord couldn’t fetch it ’round any other way. The’ was so many things ag’in him.”

Barbara’s delicate brows went up scornfully.

“I don’t call dying getting well,” she said.

“H’m!” murmured the old man gently. “Mebbe we don’t always call things by their right names.”

He got to his feet slowly.

“Wall, I mus’ be gittin’ out t’ the barn.”

He fixed his friendly, anxious eyes on the girl.

“I guess I’d figger a spell on that marryin’ proposition, ef I was you,” he said softly, and shook his head.

He turned, with his hand on the latch, to cast a dubious look back at the girl.

“It ’pears t’ me you ain’t cut out right for the second Mis’ Jarvis,” he said. “She’d ought b’ rights t’ be a big, upstandin’ female, with—with red hair.”

He shut the door hastily behind him.