"Excuse my glove," she said, with a little smile. "Excuse mine," he answered, exhibiting his sun-burnt, work-stained hand. "Richard," said Gertrude, "you never had less need of excuse in your life. You never looked half so well." He fixed his eyes upon her a moment. "Why, you have forgiven me!" he exclaimed. "Yes," said Gertrude, "I have forgiven you,--both you and myself. We both of us behaved very absurdly, but we both of us had reason. I wish you had come back." Richard looked about him, apparently at loss for a rejoinder. "I have been very busy," he said, at last, with a simplicity of tone slightly studied. An odd sense of dramatic effect prompted him to say neither more nor less. An equally delicate instinct forbade Gertrude to express all the joy which this assurance gave her. Excessive joy would have implied undue surprise; and it was a part of her plan frankly to expect the best things of her companion. "If you have been busy," she said, "I congratulate you. What have you been doing?" "O, a hundred things. I have been quarrying, and draining, and clearing, and I don't know what all. I thought the best thing was just to put my own hands to it. I am going to make a stone fence along the great lot on the hill there. Wallace is forever grumbling about his boundaries. I'll fix them once for all. What are you laughing at?" "I am laughing at certain foolish apprehensions that I have been indulging in for a week past. You are wiser than I, Richard. I have no imagination." "Do you mean that _I_ have? I haven't enough to guess what you _do_ mean." "Why, do you suppose, have I come over this morning?" "Because you thought I was sulking on account of your having called me a fool." "Sulking, or worse. What do I deserve for the wrong I have done you?"