"My gracious, Vona, I wasn't trying to be especially humorous," he
protested, staring at her so ingenuously that his candor could not be
questioned. "I reckoned that the boss was raising your pay, and was
being a bit sly about it! What else can it be?"

Then she was truly disconcerted; at a loss for a reply; ashamed of her
display of emotion.

He stared hard at her. His face began to show that he was struggling
with an emotion of his own. "Vona," he faltered, after a time, "I
haven't any right to ask you--but do you have any--is that paper--"

He was unable to go on under the straight and strange gaze she leveled
at him. She was plainly one who was taking counsel with herself. She
came to a sudden decision, and drew forth the envelope and tore it open,
unfolded the paper, and began to read.

When her eyes were not on him Vaniman revealed much of what a discerning
person would have known to be love; love that had been pursuing its way
quietly, but was now alarmed and up in arms. He narrowed his eyes and
studied her face while she read. But she did not reveal what she thought
and he became more perturbed. She finished and looked across at him and
then she narrowed her eyes to match his expression. Suddenly she leaned
forward and gave him the paper. He read it, amazement lifting his
eyebrows.

When he met her stare again they were moved by a common impulse--mirth;
mirth that was born out of their mutual amazement and was baptized by
the tears that their merriment squeezed from their eyes.