“I—­I held Peter’s hand all during that long play-making, and I can’t stand it any longer,” I said, squirming still closer and hiding my abashed eyes under his chin.

“Just hold my heart awhile now,” Sam answered, as he sank down on the door-sill of the shack and cradled me close and warm, safe from the little chill breeze that blew up from the valley.

I don’t know how long we sat there with arms and breasts and cheeks close, but I do know that some of the time Sam was praying, and I prayed, too.  That is, I thanked God for Sam in behalf of myself and the helpless people in the camp below us and the rest of the world, even if they don’t know about him yet.  Amen.

Of course, it is easy enough, if you have a little money in your stocking, to cut any kind of hard knot and go off on a railroad train, leaving the ravelings behind you.  But I believe that sooner or later people always have to tie up all the strings of all the knots they ruthlessly cut.  Sam made me do it the very next day, after a long talk out on the front porch under the honeysuckle that was still blowing a few late flowers.

First he made me tell mother.  She said: 

“Why, of course, Betty dear, I always expected you to marry Sam, and I am so glad that you are so like my mother and will be a good farmer’s wife.  Did I give you that gardening-book of hers that I found?  It might be a help to you both.”

Did she give me that gardening-book which had made all the mischief?  I felt Sam laugh, for I was hanging on to his arm just as I always did when he took me in to tell mother on myself.  I was glad that she finished the eighth row of the mat and began on the ninth at that exact moment, so we could go on back to the honeysuckles and the young moon.

Then Sam made me tell daddy.  Daddy said: 

“Now I suppose I will be allowed to purchase a mule and cow or an electric reaper for that farm when I think it necessary?” And as he spoke he looked Sam straight in the face, with belligerency making the corners of his white mustache stand straight up.

“Make it a big steam-silo, first, Dad Hayes,” answered Sam, laughing and red up to the edges of his hair—­and daddy got an arm around us both for a good hug.

But the letter to Peter was another thing, and I didn’t wait for Sam to tell me to write it.  I smudged and snubbed and scratched over it all day and flung myself weeping into Sam’s arms that night with it in my hand.

“Why, I wrote to Peter that night—­the night I—­took you over, Bettykin.  And here’s the answer that came an hour ago by wire.  Take your hair out of my eyes and let me read it to you.”

I snuggled two inches lower against Sam, and this is what he read: 

My life for your life, yours for mine, and joy to us both. 
PETE.