"No. But it would make no difference. I do not mind it. I love such a day. It is an etching. Do you go this way? I have stayed long enough." She walked along the path in front of him, bending to avoid the low boughs, laughing when a wet leaf slapped her cheek. "Let me go in front to clear the way," he said. "Oh, no, I like this." She leaped across a gulley. A briar pulled at her skirts. She turned about with the merest tint of a blush. He was not enough of an idealist to etherealize her. He felt her spirit, but acknowledged her a flesh and blood woman, belonging to the earth, but as the flower does, with a perfume. Her lips bespoke passion; her eyes control. He was glad that he saw her so clearly. "We shall soon be to the road," she said. "And you mean that you will leave me there as you did the other night?" "You are quick to guess." "Is it because you don't want to be seen with me?" "Yes. Those women talk." "But haven't they--haven't they any faith in their kind?" "Not much," she said frankly. "But why should you care what they say?" She looked back at him. "I mean that you are so far above them," he added. "You are worth all of them put together." "It is very kind of you to say so. But I am not." "I would swear it on a stack of Bibles." "Your oath would not be taken. But let us not talk about it. You do not know what you say when you praise me. I don't place myself above them. I know myself." She halted, turned about and held forth her hand. "See, I have worked in the potato field. I have been a laborer." "I am a laborer now," he said as they walked on. "There's no disgrace in work." "Not for a man, not for a woman, but in a field with rough men--" she shrugged her shoulders. "But the rough men--they had no effect on you," he said, almost pleadingly. "What effect could they have?" "I was very young. Even at school I had not forgotten their oaths. My uncle sent me to school. He was a poor man, but he sent me." "Didn't he run a hotel at one time?" he asked. "Yes, out in Dakota. I worked for him between terms. There were many Norwegians about, and I learned English slowly. But this is of no interest to you." "Yes, it is--the keenest sort of interest. I mean I like to hear it. What became of your uncle?" "He is a gripman on a cable train in the city. One of these days I am going to pay him back. And I am going to pay Mrs. Goodwin, too. I will be her companion as long as it pleases her, and then I must find work. I think I can teach drawing in the country. I could do nothing at it in town. Now, you see, I must be careful not to have any talk. I can take care of myself anywhere, in a potato field or in the woods, but I must not distress Mrs. Goodwin. This is the road." "Wait a moment. I feel more at liberty to talk to you." "Now that you find out that I have been a laborer? I do not like that. I wish you had not said it."