Billy knew from the Watermelon’s face that the interview with her father had been far from satisfactory. She feared that the Watermelon had not "stood up" for himself, that her speaking to her father that morning had not helped matters as she had hoped it would. She tried to think of something to say that would influence the boy, something she could do to show him how she cared, so he would not think of leaving her. The Watermelon was silent, for, now that the hour of parting had come, he did not know what to say, could not bring himself to leave her, gay, foolish, light-hearted Billy. He, however, was the first to speak. The school-house recalled miserable days of long dull confinement, and he nodded toward it, pausing in the grass by the wayside. "A standing monument," said he, "to buried freedom." "I never went to school," said Billy. "It must be awful." "Awful," the Watermelon shrugged. "It’s taken ten years from my life. Schools should be abolished." They sat down on the tiny, weather-stained step, side by side, in the gathering dusk. "Billy," began the Watermelon earnestly, and then stopped. Poor little Billy’s heart fluttered and she put her hand to her hair in her nervousness. "You know," she said firmly, irrelevantly, "I love you, Jerry." "I know, dear," replied the Watermelon. "And I love you. No matter where I am, Billy, no matter what happens, you are the best in me and I will keep you best. I’m shiftless, lazy, no ’count, but Billy, kid, I’ll always love you." "And we will get married and live happily ever after," crooned Billy. "I’m going away to-night, Billy, back to the road." "Oh, Jerry, please, clear. If father knew how much I care—" "No, Billy, your father’s right. He said to give you time; for me to go away for a while and maybe you would get—over it." "And if I did," demanded Billy, "if I loved another, wouldn’t you be jealous? Wouldn’t you kill that other, Jeroboam Martin?" She clenched her small fist and pounded him on the knee to emphasize the passion in her voice. "If he were a decent chap—" stammered the Watermelon, "it would be better for you." "It’s terrible," interrupted Billy, "when the girl has to do all the loving." She pushed the hair out of her hot face and stared angrily before her, across the road. "You only love me, but I love you. See the difference?" asked the Watermelon. "It’s simply impossible for your love to be as great as mine for that reason. Your father said I could come to you the last of August at Westhaven, and I’m coming, Billy." "And then we can marry, did father say that?" asked Billy, turning to him. "If you care still," muttered the Watermelon. "Care," Billy laughed the contrary to merry scorn. "Care? Why, Jeroboam Martin, when will I not care?" The Watermelon flushed and rose as the wisest course under the circumstances. "I’m off. Say good-by to the others for me, will you, Billy?"