“I wonder if congratulations are in order,” he suggested.

Her quick flush was followed by a pallor that gave her an appearance of anger.  “I don’t relish that sort of humor.”

“My gracious, Vona, I wasn’t trying to be especially humorous,” he protested, staring at her so ingenuously that his candor could not be questioned.  “I reckoned that the boss was raising your pay, and was being a bit sly about it!  What else can it be?”

Then she was truly disconcerted; at a loss for a reply; ashamed of her display of emotion.

He stared hard at her.  His face began to show that he was struggling with an emotion of his own.  “Vona,” he faltered, after a time, “I haven’t any right to ask you—­but do you have any—­is that paper—­”

He was unable to go on under the straight and strange gaze she leveled at him.  She was plainly one who was taking counsel with herself.  She came to a sudden decision, and drew forth the envelope and tore it open, unfolded the paper, and began to read.

When her eyes were not on him Vaniman revealed much of what a discerning person would have known to be love; love that had been pursuing its way quietly, but was now alarmed and up in arms.  He narrowed his eyes and studied her face while she read.  But she did not reveal what she thought and he became more perturbed.  She finished and looked across at him and then she narrowed her eyes to match his expression.  Suddenly she leaned forward and gave him the paper.  He read it, amazement lifting his eyebrows.

When he met her stare again they were moved by a common impulse—­mirth; mirth that was born out of their mutual amazement and was baptized by the tears that their merriment squeezed from their eyes.

“I am not laughing at Tasper Britt,” he gasped, checking his hilarity.  “I would not laugh at any man who falls in love with you, Vona.  I am laughing at the idea of Tasper Britt writing poetry.  Let me look out of the window!  Has Burkett Hill tipped over?  Has the sun turned in the heavens at high noon and started back to the east?”

“What does it mean?” she asked.  Her expression excused the banality of her query; her eyes told him that she knew, but her ears awaited his indorsement of her woman’s conviction.

He pointed to the big calendar on the wall.  “It’s a valentine,” he said, gravely.  But the twinkle reappeared in his eyes when he added, “And valentines have always been used for prefaces in the volume of Love.”

She did not reflect any of his amusement.  She clasped her hands and gazed down on them, and her forehead was wrinkled with honest distress.

“Of course, you have sort of been guessing,” he ventured.  “All the renovating process—­the way he has been tiptoeing around and squinting at you!”

She looked up suddenly and caught his gaze; his tone had been hard, but his eyes were tender.

Then it happened!