"Now, the chimney next and Pete's housed," said Sam, as he sat down on a
log right where I was crouching, filling the basket with the chips. "Are
you happy, Bettykin?"

"Sam, when I know that Peter is tucked in that little old bed that
matches yours that mother gave you out of our garret I am going to
breathe so deep that maybe I'll--I'll break my belt," I answered, as I
picked a chip from under one of his big farm shoes. "I couldn't stand
him on my mind much longer."

"Let him stay comfortably in your heart and don't get him on your mind,"
answered Sam, as he calmly got out the cob pipe, filled and lighted it.
"Pete's great enough to fill both for any woman." And Sam's face took on
that devout young prophet-look it always does when he looks at his land
or mentions Peter--the look which then began to irritate as well as
impress me, I don't exactly know why.

"My mind's not very big and my heart is smaller," I snapped, as I upset
part of the basket of chips and had to begin to pick them all up again.

"You're young--you'll grow up--to Pete," said Sam, as he roughed my hair
worse than he had ever done since I had forbidden him, picked up my
basket and started to the house, leaving me to follow, squaw-fashion
and perfectly furious. Now if I don't know whether my troth is plighted
to Peter, and Peter doesn't know, I am certain that I can't see why
Samuel Foster Crittenden should be so sure of it; and he and I parted
anything but friends, a fact over which I could feel daddy chuckle as he
sat wedged beside me in the car, though he didn't dare smile. I would
wager my first mess of peas that he winked at Sam. I had seen them act