your hand the first thing, Betty," answered Sam, with the gridiron
smolder in his eyes which snapped up into a twinkle as he added, "Could
you help me set onions for a few hours later on?"

"Oh, I'd adore it!" I answered, enthusiastically. "Of course, I mean to
help plant all the eat things, too. I may like them best. Let's see what
grandmother says about onions." And I began to ruffle back the pages of
the book that Sam held in both his hands for me.

"Good gracious! Betty, couldn't the old lady write!" exclaimed Sam, a
half-hour later, after we had finished with onions and many other
profitable vegetables. "Why, that description of her hog's dying with
cholera and the rescue reads like a--a Greek tragedy in its simplicity."

"Oh, Sam," I exclaimed in dismay, "that reminds me, I forgot to tell you
about the play, and now you ought to go home, with all those five miles
to walk and plowing to do at daylight." "Play? What play? Won't it
keep?" asked Sam, as he rose and reached for his hat on the table.
"Let's enjoy this last ten minutes before my hike, down at the gate."

"Oh no, it won't keep, and I don't know exactly what I will do about it
and the garden. Here's Peter's letter; read it for yourself," I wailed,
as I drew the splashed letter out from the ruffle in the front of my
dress where I had stuck it for safe keeping, and handed it to Sam. If I
hadn't been so distressed by the collision of the play and the garden in
my heart I never would have been so dishonorable as to let Sam read the
last paragraph in Peter's letter, which was more affectionate than I
felt was really right for Peter to write me, even after the Astor
tea-party, and which had troubled me faintly until I had forgotten about
it in my excitement about Farrington and the play. I saw Sam's hand