"Barney, why don't you make up with her?"
Barney stood still.
"Barney, she feels awfully because you didn't come back when she
called you last night."
Barney made no reply. He and the white horse stood like statues.
"Barney, why don't you make up with her? I wish you would." Rose's
voice was full of tender inflections; it might have been that of an
angel peace-making.
Barney turned around between the handles of the plough, and looked at
her steadily. "You don't know anything about it, Rose," he said.
Rose looked up in his face, and her own was full of fine pleading.
"Oh, Barney," she said, "poor Charlotte does feel so bad! I know that
anyhow."
"You don't know how I am situated. I can't--"
"Do go and see her, Barney."
"Do you think I'm going into Cephas Barnard's house after he's
ordered me out?"
"Go up the road a little way, and she'll come and meet you. I'll run
ahead and tell her."
Barney shook his head. "I can't; you don't know anything about it,
Rose." He looked into Rose's eyes. "You're real good, Rose," he said,
as if with a sudden recognition of her presence.
Rose blushed softly, a new look came into her eyes, she smiled up at
him, and her face was all pink and sweet and fully set towards him,
like a rose for which he was a sun.
"No, I ain't good," she whispered.
"Yes, you are; but I can't.
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