The dawning light in his eyes told her that he did.

“But I’ve had no experience,” he hesitated.  “Besides, I’ve considerable farm-work of my own to do.  I’ve been hoeing potatoes all day.  Tomorrow I shall have to go into the cornfield, or lose my crop.  Time, tide and weeds wait for no man.”

“I supposed you were a hunter,” she said.  “I thought—­”

He laughed unpleasantly.

“Oh, I see,” he interrupted rudely:  “you supposed, in other words, that I was an idle chap, addicted to wandering about the woods, a gun on my shoulder, a cur—­quite as much of a ne’er-do-well as myself—­at my heels.  Of course Deacon Whittle and Mrs. Solomon Black have told you all about it.  And since you’ve set about reforming Brookville, you thought you’d begin with me.  Well, I’m obliged to you; but—­”

The girl arose trembling to her feet.

“You are not kind!” she cried.  “You are not kind!”

They stood for an instant, gazing into each other’s eyes during one of those flashes of time which sometimes count for years.

“Forgive me,” he muttered huskily.  “I’m a brute at best; but I had no business to speak to you as I did.”

“But why did you say—­what made you ever think I’d set about reforming—­that is what you said—­reforming—­Brookville?  I never thought of such a thing!  How could I?”

He hung his head, abashed by the lightning in her mild eyes.

She clasped her small, fair hands and bent toward him.

“And you said you wanted to be—­friends.  I hoped—­”

“I do,” he said gruffly.  “I’ve told you I’m ashamed of myself.”

She drew back, sighing deeply.

“I don’t want you to feel—­ashamed,” she said, in a sweet, tired voice.  “But I wish—­”

“Tell me!” he urged, when she did not finish her sentence.

“Do you think everybody is going to misunderstand me, as you have?” she asked, somewhat piteously.  “Is it so strange and unheard of a thing for a woman to want a home and—­and friends?  Isn’t it allowable for a person who has money to want to pay fair wages?  Why should I scrimp and haggle and screw, when I want most of all to be generous?”

“Because,” he told her seriously, “scrimping, haggling and screwing have been the fashion for so long, the other thing rouses mean suspicions by its very novelty.  It’s too good to be true; that’s all.”

“You mean people will suspect—­they’ll think there’s something—­”

She stood before him, her hands fallen at her sides, her eyes downcast.

“I confess I couldn’t believe that there wasn’t an ulterior motive,” he said honestly.  “That’s where I was less noble than you.”

She flashed a sudden strange look at him.

“There is,” she breathed.  “I’m going to be honest—­with you.  I have—­an ulterior motive.”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

Her lips formed the single word of denial.