There was a light twinkling among the dark trees when at last Jarvis again passed the big apple-farm. He got down from his buggy, fastened the horse to a tree, and walked quietly toward the house. The long French windows stood open to the breeze, and within the lamp-lighted room Jarvis caught sight of Barbara. She was sitting close to the table reading aloud; at her side, leaning his yellow head against her knee, sat Jimmy, serious and intent. Barbara’s pleasant voice rang out in the stillness:
“Through all the pleasant meadow-side The grass grew shoulder high, Till the shining scythes went far and wide And cut it down to dry.”
“That’s haying,” observed Jimmy, with satisfaction. “Ours is all in the barn now.”
“Those green and sweetly smelling crops They led in wagons home; And they piled them here in mountain tops For mountaineers to roam. O, what a joy to clamber there, O, what a place for play, With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, The happy hills of hay!”
Jarvis stepped boldly to the piazza, and tapped on the open sash.
“I guess it’s David!” he heard the child say joyously. And saw the quick blush that rose to Barbara’s cheek.
The blood sprang to his own temples and hammered furiously there for an instant as he looked at her in her diaphanous white dress. Then he entered at her quiet bidding.
“I was passing, and it occurred to me to stop, and—see you,” he said awkwardly.
Jimmy had retreated behind his sister’s chair and was gazing at him with frowning intentness. Manifestly the child was disappointed. Whitcomb would fit into the scene far better than himself, Jarvis was forced to acknowledge. He saw the wonderment in Barbara’s eyes, and mingled with it he fancied he could detect cold dislike and fear.
“You were reading,” he said, his eyes lingering on the hands which held the thin blue volume. “Won’t you——” He hesitated; then went on boldly: “Don’t stop because I am here.”
She would have turned over the leaves and read other pretty trifles if it had been David instead of himself, he thought bitterly. He waited for a cold refusal.
“You wouldn’t like ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses,’” Jimmy said unexpectedly. He had not removed his inquiring brown eyes from Jarvis’s face. Something that he saw there emboldened him. “It’s for little boys, littler than I am; but I like it.”