"That isn’t love. Merely an increased vibration of the muscles of the heart. Love—ah, Henrietta, do I have to tell you what love is?" "No," whispered Henrietta. "It’s just giving." She paused, gazing before her into the deepening shadows of the evening with misty eyes, for the first time realizing the completeness of life. She nodded after a moment toward the approaching Billy and the Watermelon. "What’s the matter with the children? They look so serious, and yet they must have something to eat, for they are carrying bundles." "Probably couldn’t arrange for a tow for Charlie’s car and see where we sit up with it all night and hold its head." *CHAPTER XX* *THE SEVEN O’CLOCK EXPRESS* As Bartlett said, the hill was cut through by a railroad. The deep gully brought Billy and the Watermelon to a halt when they had outstripped Bartlett and Henrietta, leaving them behind at the foot of the hill. The sides of the gully were overgrown with grass and tangled briers, but a narrow foot-path led down to the tracks and up the incline on the other side. The Watermelon helped Billy down one side and dragged her up the other. "I would hate to be a tramp," panted Billy as she reached the other side and paused a moment for breath. "I would get so cross if I were hungry and knew I couldn’t get anything to eat for a long time." The Watermelon flushed hotly, but she was not looking, and when he spoke he spoke carelessly enough. "You would get used to it," said he. "You can get used to anything. Father used to say that the idea of hell for all eternity was an absurdity—you were sure to get used to it and then it wouldn’t count any more as a punishment." "I suppose that’s so," agreed Billy. "But how do you know? You weren’t ever a tramp, were you, Jerry?" "A tramp, kid, is the only man in America to-day, besides the millionaire, who is his own master. Do you know that?" "I would kind of hate that sort of master," said Billy. "A tramp never has to worry about rent—" "I know, but I should think the house might be worth the worry." The Watermelon changed the subject. A grim, elderly woman, thin and work-worn before her time, listened to their troubles in the faded, weather-gray farm-house. Her man, she explained, was out in the fields with the horses, but when he returned, she would send him around and he would tow the car in for them. She never took boarders. The house was a sight, but if they didn’t mind, she did not and they could have two rooms. She wrapped some bread, fruit and cookies up for them in newspapers, and they started back to wait with the others by the machine until the farmer came.