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“My mother’s sick—just hear her moanin’ clear in here.”

Young Vickers’s face was a study.

“Why, she was sick last time I wanted to take you som’ers—to a dance, wasn’t it?”

“Yes—I know.”

“An’ time before that, when I wanted you to go to a church sociable up’n String Town.”

“Yes.”

“Why, she must be sick near onto all the time, accordin’ to that.”

“She is—pretty near.” She withdrew her hand. There was a stiff-looking lounge in one corner of the room. It was covered with Brussels carpet, and had an uncomfortable back, but it was dear to Demaris’s heart. She had gathered and sold strawberries two whole summers to pay for it. She sat down on it now and laid her hands together on her knees.

The young man followed and sat down beside her.

“Why, my dear,” he said, very quietly, “you can’t stand this sort of thing—it’s wearin’ you out. You never did look light an’ happy like other girls o’ your age; an’ lately you’re gettin’ a real pinched look. I feel as if ’t was time for me to interfere.” He took her hand again.