shake as he read that last page, and he held it away from me and
finished it, as I remembered and gasped and reached for it.

"Good old Pete," said Sam, in a voice that shook as his hand did while
he handed me back the letter. "It is a great chance for him, and if you
can help you'll have to go to it, Betty. Pete only needs ballast, and
you are it--he seems to think."

"But how will I find time enough from making our garden to help make his
play?" I asked as I rose and clung to his sleeve as I had done in all
serious moments of my life, even when his coat-sleeve had been that of
a roundabout jacket. My heart was weak and jumpy as I asked the
question.

"Betty," said Sam, gently, lifting my hand from his arm into his for a
second and then handing it firmly back to me, "that garden was just a
dream you and I have been having this evening. It can't be. Don't you
see, dear, I am in a hard hand-to-hand struggle with my land, which is
all I possess, for--for bread for myself and the kiddie, and I--I can't
have a woman's flower-garden. It looks as if you and old Petie can do a
real literary stunt together. Just get at it, and God bless you both.
Good night now; I must sprint." And as he spoke he was through one of
the long windows and out on the front porch in the moonlight.

"Oh, wait, Sam, wait!" I gasped, as I flew after him and clung to him
determinedly.

"Well," he said, patiently, as he stood on the step below me and turned
his bronze head away from me out toward his dim hills sleeping in the
soft mystery of the moonlight.