"I--I thought it was--was someone else. Oh, Dorian, I'm so glad it is
you!"

She stood close to him as if wishing to claim his protection. He
instinctively placed his arm about her shoulders. "Why, you silly girl,
the dark won't hurt you."

"I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of--Oh, Dorian, don't let him
hurt me!" There was a sob in her voice.

"What are you talking about? I believe you're not well. Are your feet
wet? Have you a fever?" He put his hand on her forehead, brushing back
the dark, towsled hair. He took her plump, work-roughened hand in his
bigger and equally rough one. "And this is why you were not to my
party," he said.

"Yes; I hated to miss it, but father's rheumatism was so bad that he
could not come out. So it was up to me. We haven't any too much water
this summer. I'd better turn the water down another row; it's flooding
the corn."

They went to the lantern on the ditch bank. Dorian picked up the hoe and
made the proper adjustment of the water flow. "How long will it take for
the water to reach the bottom of the row?" he asked.

"About fifteen minutes."

"And how many rows remain?"