On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming. The horse ran briskly
through the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground,
turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them under
again.
"Ann," he said when they were more than half-way home, "don't you care
for me . . . any more?" As he spoke, he cut at the black trees with
his long whip.
"Yes, I do, Tom."
"As much as you did?"
"Just as much."
"More, Ann?"
"Maybe."
"Then . . . will you? Say, will you, Ann?"
"I don't know, Tom. Don't ask me. Please."
"But I've got to ask you," he cried.
"Oh, what's the good." And she looked away, to where the faint light
of the lantern fled along beside them, over the trees.
"Is it," he said slowly, "is it no?"
"Well, then--no."