There was no response.  He quickened his steps.  The figure ran to another shelter.  He could see her now, and he called again, louder than before.  She stopped, and then darted through the corn into the more open potatoe patch.  Dorian followed.

“Hello, Carlia,” he said, “what are you doing?”

The girl stood before him, bareheaded, with rough dress and heavy boots.  She was panting as if with fright.  When she caught a full sight of Dorian she gave a little cry, and when he came within reach, she grasped him by the arm.

“Oh, is it you, Dorian?”

“Sure.  Who else did you think it was?  Why, you’re all of a tremble.  What are you afraid of?”

“I—­I thought it was—­was someone else.  Oh, Dorian, I’m so glad it is you!”

She stood close to him as if wishing to claim his protection.  He instinctively placed his arm about her shoulders.  “Why, you silly girl, the dark won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark.  I’m afraid of—­Oh, Dorian, don’t let him hurt me!” There was a sob in her voice.

“What are you talking about?  I believe you’re not well.  Are your feet wet?  Have you a fever?” He put his hand on her forehead, brushing back the dark, towsled hair.  He took her plump, work-roughened hand in his bigger and equally rough one.  “And this is why you were not to my party,” he said.

“Yes; I hated to miss it, but father’s rheumatism was so bad that he could not come out.  So it was up to me.  We haven’t any too much water this summer.  I’d better turn the water down another row; it’s flooding the corn.”

They went to the lantern on the ditch bank.  Dorian picked up the hoe and made the proper adjustment of the water flow.  “How long will it take for the water to reach the bottom of the row?” he asked.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“And how many rows remain?”

Carlia counted.  “Twelve,” she said.

“All right.  This is a small stream and will only allow for three rows at a time.  Three into twelve is four, and four times fifteen is sixty.  It is now half past ten.  We’ll get through by twelve o’clock easy.”

“You’d better go home.  I’m all right now.  I’m not afraid.”

“I said we will get home.  Sit down here on the bank.  Are you cold?” He took off his coat and placed it about her shoulders.  She made no objections, though in truth she was not cold.

“Tell me about the party,” she said.

He told her who were there, and how they had missed her.

“And did Uncle Zed preach?”

“Preach?  O, yes, he talked mighty fine.  I wish I could tell you what he said.”

“What was it about?”

“About God,” he answered reverently.

“Try to tell me, Dorian.  I need to know.  I’m such a dunce.”

Dorian repeated in his way Uncle Zed’s argument, and he succeeded fairly well in his presentation of the subject.  The still night under the shining stars added an impressive setting to the telling, and the girl close by his side drank in hungrily every word.  When the water reached the end of the rows, it was turned into others, until all were irrigated.  When that was accomplished, Dorian’s watch showed half past eleven.  He picked up the lantern and the hoe, and they walked back to the house.