He
loved Lucy's superiority--it was above ordinary things. "Like a star,"
Calvin Stammark told himself.
He, with everything else that had combated their desire, depriving them
of the very necessities for his adoration, had been to blame.
"Lucy," he said, bending over her and speaking rapidly, "let's you and
me go and learn all this life together. Let's run away from
Greenstream and Wilmer Deakon and even Ettie, what we ought to hold
by, and see every theater in the country. I've got enough money----"
The radiance of the gesture by which she interrupted his speech filled
him with pounding joy.
"Oh, shall we!" she cried; and then hugged him wildly, her warm young
arms about his neck.
"Of course we will," he reassured her; "and right away, to-morrow. You
and me."
He felt her lips against his, and then more cautiously she took up the
immediate planning of their purpose. It would be ridiculously easy;
they would drive to Stanwick in the buggy.
"The hotels and all," she continued with shining eyes; "and nobody will
think it's queer. I'll be your daughter, like always."
Calvin turned abruptly from her and faced the valley saturated with
slumberous sunlight. Lucy hesitated for a moment and then fled lightly
into the house. After a little he heard her singing on the upper floor.
People wouldn't think it was queer because she would be his daughter,
"like always."
Yet he wasn't old beyond hope, past love--as strong and nearly as
springy as a hickory sapling.
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