II

It was late in the afternoon of an August day.  From the high gable windows of the barn the yellow sunlight shot through the dusty air in a long, straight shaft and rested on the lower part of the haymow, gilding every dry wisp with a temporary and fatuous splendor.  Elsewhere in the barn it was already half dark.  On one side the hay rose up in a tremendous heap almost to the roof, where it vanished dimly in the dusky shadows.  Opposite were the cow-stables, five of them in a row, each occupant munching her cud contentedly and now and then giving vent to a soft, self-satisfied low.  From one of the stalls could be heard the rhythmical squirt of milk against the milking-pail, for David was engaged upon his evening work.  On a rickety chair near the hay-loft sat Janet, holding a timid little barn cat in her lap and stroking it nervously.  She was speaking in a voice that betrayed considerable agitation.

“Well, I’m just going to leave it with you to decide, for I’m not ready to do it myself.  But it does seem to me that it’s the chance of a lifetime.  It’s just a question of whether I shall always stay on here teaching district school, or see a little of the world and have a chance to go on studying.”

She stopped, and a moment of strained silence ensued, broken only by the sound of the milking.  David pressed his head against the flank of the cow and choked back something in his throat.  Then he managed to speak.

“Of course, Janet,” he said, with an attempt at composure.  “I can see how it must attract you—­this opportunity of going off to college, and I don’t mean to put anything in your way.  Such questions a person has to decide for one’s self, and I don’t see how I can give you any help.”

“Yes, there you are again.  You just won’t say yes or no; but I am sure all the time that you don’t really want me to go.  You’d like to keep me here at home, just an ignorant, stupid country girl.  Why don’t you want me to make something of myself, David?  I know I’ve got ability, and you know it as well as I do, but it isn’t of any use to me here.  Wouldn’t you feel proud of me if I went off and did something worth while?”

David could not answer at once.  He sat with his eyes shut, his knees pressed rigidly against the pail, and against his head he felt the warm, throbbing pulse of the animal in front of him.  Upon his mind a picture was forcing itself with cruel insistence.  It was the Janet of a year hence, well-dressed, sedate, intellectual, with all her new college interests to talk of; and side by side with this he saw himself—­what would he be?  Just the same as ever, only a little more awkward and out of date, and when he talked it would be of—­yes, his cows, and the new pig, and the price of potatoes!  It was Loren who would be suited to her then; it was they who would sit under the trees together and the farmer could go about his chores.  The impossibility of her continuing to love him struck him with a new pang of conviction, and he felt helpless before it.