“He asked me to marry him,” said Barbara abruptly. Then bit her lip angrily at the old man’s look of amazed incredulity. “I’m sure I don’t know why I told you, only I—haven’t anyone to speak to, and—no one to advise me.” Peg’s face grew suddenly grave. “Don’t you be afraid I’ll mention it, Miss Barb’ry,” he said gently. “‘Course I was kind o’ s’prised—at first. But I don’t know’s I be, come t’ think o’ it. He asked you to be Mis’ Jarvis? Wall! You goin’ to do it, Miss Barb’ry?” “He said he would give me the farm,” Barbara went on slowly, “to do as I liked with. I could—give it to Jimmy.” She looked at him with a child’s unconscious appeal. “Do you think I ought to—to marry him, Peg?” The old man was still eyeing her soberly, even wistfully. “I’ve knowed you sence you was a little girl no higher’n my knee, Miss Barb’ry,” he began. “I’ve seed you grow up. An’ I’ve seed you go through some pretty hard experiences. Now, I ain’t the kind to talk very much ’bout my religion, an’ the’s times when I don’t ’pear to have a nawful lot of it; but the’s a God that hears an’—an’ takes notice. That much I’ve found out, an’ ef I was you I’d go to headquarters an’ git th’ best advice. But I’ll say this, ef the farm is wore out,—es he says,—it ’pears t’ me he’s askin’ a pretty high price fer th’ prop’ty. He wants your youth, Miss Barb’ry, an’ your pretty looks, an’ your life. An’ es fer the Cap’n—Wall, I’d ruther not d’pend too much on th’ Hon’rable Stephen Jarvis, when it comes t’ th’ Cap’n. That’s the way it looks to me. ’Course I don’t p’tend to be a good jedge o’ what’s best in th’ world. I don’t look like it, do I?” He glanced down at his patched and faded clothes with a cheerfully acquiescent smile. “I’ve a notion,” he went on, “that the Lord’ll advise ye ’long th’ same lines ’s I hev. But don’t take my word fer it.” “None of my prayers have been answered,” Barbara said, her red lips setting themselves in obstinate lines. “I’ve given up expecting anything so foolish. I prayed to have father get well, and he—died.” “But he got well,” put in Peg quietly. “You c’n bet he did. Mebbe the Lord couldn’t fetch it ’round any other way. The’ was so many things ag’in him.” Barbara’s delicate brows went up scornfully. “I don’t call dying getting well,” she said. “H’m!” murmured the old man gently. “Mebbe we don’t always call things by their right names.” He got to his feet slowly. “Wall, I mus’ be gittin’ out t’ the barn.” He fixed his friendly, anxious eyes on the girl. “I guess I’d figger a spell on that marryin’ proposition, ef I was you,” he said softly, and shook his head. He turned, with his hand on the latch, to cast a dubious look back at the girl. “It ’pears t’ me you ain’t cut out right for the second Mis’ Jarvis,” he said. “She’d ought b’ rights t’ be a big, upstandin’ female, with—with red hair.” He shut the door hastily behind him. VI