although he could not define it to himself. Tired as he was when he came home
in the evening, his eyes would often kindle with pleasure at some action or
remark that interested him from its novelty. In spite of his weariness and
preoccupation, , in spite of a still greater obstacle--the inertia of a mind
dulled by material life--he had begun to consider Alida's personality for its
own sake. He liked to watch her, not to see what she did to his advantage,
but how she did it. She was awakening an agreeable expectancy, and he
sometimes smilingly said to himself, "What's next?"

"Oh, no!" he thought as he was milking the last cow, "I'd much rather she'd
take her own natural way in doing things. It would be easier for her and it's
her right and--and somehow I like her way just as I used to like Bessie's
ways. She isn't Bessie and never can be, and for some reason I'd like her to
be as different as possible."

Unconsciously and unintentionally, however, he had given Alida's sensitive
nature a slight wound. She felt that she had been told in effect, "You can
help me all you please, and I would rather you would do this in a way that
will not awaken associations, but you must not think of me or expect me to
think of you in any light that was not agreed upon." That he had feared the
possibility of this, that he might have fancied he saw indications of this,
hurt her pride--that pride and delicacy of feeling which most women shield so
instinctively. She was now consciously on her guard, and so was not so secure
against the thoughts she deprecated as before. In spite of herself, a
restraint would tinge her manner which he would eventually feel in a vague,
uncomfortable way.

But he came in at last, very tired and thoroughly good-natured. "I'm going to
town tomorrow," he said, "and I thought of taking a very early start so as to
save time. Would you like to go?"