He took a step toward her as he spoke and as he did so she started her pony.  A little way off she checked him and said: 

“I’m sorry.  There are no violets now.”

She rode away slowly waving her hand and singing with the joy of a bird in the springtime: 

  “My sweetheart, come along
   Don’t you hear the glad song
   As the notes of the nightingale flow? 
   Don’t you hear the fond tale
   Of the sweet nightingale
   As she sings in the valleys below—­
   As she sings in the valleys below?”

He stood looking and listening.  The song came to him as clear and sweet as the notes of a vesper bell wandering in miles of silence.

When it had ceased he felt his lip and said:  “How slow the time passes!  I’m going to get some shaving soap and a razor.”

That evening when Harry was helping Samson with the horses he said: 

“I’m going to tell you a secret.  I wish you wouldn’t say anything about it.”

Samson stood pulling the hair out of his card and looking very stern as he listened while Harry told of the assault upon him and how Bim had arrived and driven the rowdies away with her gun but he said not a word of her demonstration of tender sympathy.  To him that had clothed the whole adventure with a kind of sanctity so that he could not bear to have it talked about.

Samson’s eyes glowed with anger.  They searched the face of the boy.  His voice was deep and solemn when he said: 

“This is a serious matter.  Why do you wish to keep it a secret?”

The boy blushed.  For a moment he knew not what to say.  Then he spoke:  “It ain’t me so much—­it’s her,” he managed to say.  “She wouldn’t want it to be talked about and I don’t either.”

Samson began to understand.  “She’s quite a girl I guess,” he said thoughtfully.  “She must have the nerve of a man—­I declare she must.”

“Yes-sir-ee!  They’d ‘a’ got hurt if they hadn’t gone away, that’s sure,” said Harry.

“We’ll look out for them after this,” Samson rejoined.  “The first time I meet that man McNoll he’ll have to settle with me and he’ll pay cash on the nail.”

Bim having heard of Harry’s part in Abe’s fight and of the fact that he was to be working alone all day at the new house had ridden out through the woods to the open prairie and hunted in sight of the new cabin that afternoon.  Unwilling to confess her extreme interest in the boy she had said not a word of her brave act.  It was not shame; it was partly a kind of rebellion against the tyranny of youthful ardor; it was partly the fear of ridicule.

So it happened that the adventure of Harry Needles made scarcely a ripple on the sensitive surface of the village life.  It will be seen, however, that it had started strong undercurrents likely, in time, to make themselves felt.

The house and barn were finished whereupon Samson and Harry drove to Springfield—­a muddy, crude and growing village with thick woods on its north side—­and bought furniture.  Their wagon was loaded and they were ready to start for home.  They were walking on the main street when Harry touched Samson’s arm and whispered: