Frank threw up the window.  “I’ll make what’s left over from my lunch do me, Squire.  I’m tied up here with my work.”

“I’ll allow the new Starr in our local sky to keep you away from euchre,” the Squire grumbled, “but I swanny if I’ll let your interest in astronomy, all of a sudden, keep you away from the hot vittles you need.  You come along with me to the house.”

“Squire, I can’t lock the vault yet awhile.  I don’t want to leave things as they are.  I must not.”

Vona had come to his side, she understood the nature of his anxiety.  “I am just starting for my house, Squire Hexter.  I’m going to hurry back with Frank’s supper, so that he won’t be bothered.”

“Bless your soul, sis, even Xoa will be perfectly satisfied with that arrangement when I explain,” said the Squire, gallantly.  “I’m tempted to stay, myself, if Hebe is going to serve.”  He backed away and did a grand salaam, flourishing the cane whose taps on the window had startled the lovers.

“You must not take the time, Vona,” protested the young man.

“I’ll bring the supper when I’m on my way to the hall.  Not another word!  If I’m to lose the best part of my audience from the hall to-night, I can, at least, have that best part give me a compliment on my new gown—­and give me,” she went on, reassuring him by a brave little smile, “a whole lot of courage by a dear kiss.”

She hurried away.

He was hard at work when she returned, carrying a wicker basket.

Again he protested because she was taking so much trouble, but she laid aside her coat and insisted on arranging the food on a corner of the table, a happy flush on her cheeks, giving him thanks with her eyes when he praised her gown.

“I’m going to look in on you after the show,” she declared.  “Father will come with me.”

Vona remained with him until the wall clock warned her.

She asked him to wait a moment when he brought her wraps.  She stood before him in her gay garb, wistfully appealing.  “Frank, I was intending to have a little play of my own with you at the hall to-night.  I was going to look right past that Durgin boy, straight down into your eyes, when I came to a certain place in the play.  I was intending to let the folks of Egypt know something, providing they all don’t know it by now.  This is what I have to say, and now I’m saying it to the only audience I care for: 

     “’Twere vain to tell thee all I feel,
     Or say for thee I’d die. 
     Ah, well-a-day, the sweetest melody
     Could never, never say one half my love for thee.”

Then, after a moment, she escaped from his ardent embrace.

“Remember that, dearest,” she called from the doorway.

“I’ll remember it every time I start with a line of figures, you blessed girl.  And then how my pencil will go dancing up the column!”

After she had gone he pulled the curtain cords, raising the curtains so that they covered the lower sashes; he did not care to be seen at his work by the folks who were on their way to the hall.