Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth.  She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied.

The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness.  A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment.  He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else.

“They smell awfully g-good,” whispered Annette.

“What?”

“The hoe-cakes.  I didn’t have any dinner.”

“Neither did I.”

Annette looked up quickly.  “What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?”

The farmer’s wife fortunately came to the rescue.

“Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag’in.”

Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry.  He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night.  Was all the rest of life going to be like this?  Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever?

Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him.

“Aw, take two or three and butter ’em while they are hot.  Long sweetening or short?”

“Both,” said Annette.  “I never tasted anything so g-good.  Sandy, what’s the matter with you?  I never saw you when you weren’t hungry b-before.  Look!  Won’t you try this s-sizzly one?”

Sandy looked and was lost.  He ate with a coming appetite.

The farmer’s wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests.

“I’ve had six,” said Annette; “do you suppose I’ll have time for another one?”

“Lemme give you both a clean plate and some pie,” suggested the eager housewife.

Sandy looked at her and smiled.

“I’ll take the clean plate,” he said, “and—­and more hoe-cakes.”

When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience.  She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions.

After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness.  Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton.  One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale.

A sob aroused him.  Annette, left to herself, had collapsed.  He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder.

“There, there, Nettie!  You’ll be all right in the morning.”

“I won’t!” she declared petulantly.  “You don’t know anything ab-b-bout being in love.”

Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness.  Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing.