“Sam, when I know that Peter is tucked in that little old bed that matches yours that mother gave you out of our garret I am going to breathe so deep that maybe I’ll—­I’ll break my belt,” I answered, as I picked a chip from under one of his big farm shoes.  “I couldn’t stand him on my mind much longer.”

“Let him stay comfortably in your heart and don’t get him on your mind,” answered Sam, as he calmly got out the cob pipe, filled and lighted it.  “Pete’s great enough to fill both for any woman.”  And Sam’s face took on that devout young prophet-look it always does when he looks at his land or mentions Peter—­the look which then began to irritate as well as impress me, I don’t exactly know why.

“My mind’s not very big and my heart is smaller,” I snapped, as I upset part of the basket of chips and had to begin to pick them all up again.

“You’re young—­you’ll grow up—­to Pete,” said Sam, as he roughed my hair worse than he had ever done since I had forbidden him, picked up my basket and started to the house, leaving me to follow, squaw-fashion and perfectly furious.  Now if I don’t know whether my troth is plighted to Peter, and Peter doesn’t know, I am certain that I can’t see why Samuel Foster Crittenden should be so sure of it; and he and I parted anything but friends, a fact over which I could feel daddy chuckle as he sat wedged beside me in the car, though he didn’t dare smile.  I would wager my first mess of peas that he winked at Sam.  I had seen them act that way about me only too often in my infancy.  I felt that I hated the whole world until I had to except the fledgling, who rode down to the gate on the running-board just over my left shoulder, while Sam came along to hold him on.

“Betty, you is the prettiest lady they is if your eyes do crinkle when you laugh, and ain’t blue.  I’d let you kiss me anywhere I’m clean enough, if you bring me just one pigeon that will lay eggs for little ones,” he said, as I slowed up for him to climb down to open the gate.

“She could get one cheaper than that, Byrd,” said Sam, as he got down to open the gate, while for a second I snuggled the fledgling, whom I always hated to leave out in the woods in the dark, even with Sam’s rough hand so near his pillow.

“Thank you,” I said, pleasantly, as I drove through the gate, without stopping another ten minutes to chat, as I knew daddy wanted to.  I’m glad Samuel Foster Crittenden will never know just exactly what I was cross about, as I wasn’t sure myself.  It is strange how you can hate a person for whom you have the deep regard I have for Sam, when he has done nothing at all to offend you.