"And have you always lived here, Farmer Hartley?" she asked. "All your
life, I mean?"
"No, not all my life," replied the farmer, "though pooty nigh it. I was
ten year old when my uncle died, and father left sea-farin', and kem
home to the farm to live. Before that we'd lived in different places,
movin' round, like. We was at sea a good deal, sailin' with father when
he went on pleasant voyages, to the West Indies, or sich. But sence then
I ain't ben away much. I don't seem to find no pleasanter place than the
old farm, somehow."
"I don't believe there _is_ any pleasanter place in the world!" said
Hilda, warmly. "I am sure I have never been so happy anywhere as I have
here."
Farmer Hartley looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Ye've changed yer
views some, Huldy, hain't ye, sence the fust day ye kem heer? I didn't
never think, then, as I'd be givin' you rides in the hay-riggin', sech a
fine young lady as you was."
Hilda gave him an imploring glance, while the blood mounted to her
temples. "Please, Farmer Hartley," she said in a low voice, "please try
to forget that first day. It isn't my views that have changed," she
added, "it is I myself. I don't--I really don't _think_ I am the same
girl who came here a month ago."
"No, my gal," said the farmer, heartily, "I don't think ye are." He
walked along in silence for a few minutes, and then said, "'Tis curus
how folks kin sometimes change 'emselves, one way or the other.
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