“WANZA,” I asked, “how would you like to earn some money?”
Wanza’s big child eyes looked at me from beneath the curls that tumbled distractingly about her fair face.
“Mr. Dale,” she said solemnly, “I earn six dollars a week with my cart.”
We were sitting on the river bank in the shade of some cottonwoods, having met at the village post-office. We had met at three o’clock, and it was close onto five when I propounded my query. I admitted to myself, when I put the question, that I had been philandering. But there was not a swain in the village of Roselake who did not philander with Wanza. And Wanza, gay, quick-tempered, happy-hearted Wanza—who knew if she were as guileless as she seemed with her frank camaraderie?
“To be sure you do,” I answered her, lying back on the soft green turf and lazily watching the skimming clouds high above the terre verte steeples of the pines, “to be sure you do. But how would you like to earn thirty dollars a month—and still drive your cart?”
“Mr. Dale,” Wanza returned, solemnly as before, “it can’t be done.”
Her eyes had grown bigger and brighter, and she rocked forward, clasping her hands over her knees. I did not reply to this assertion, and after a pause she spoke one word, still hugging her knees and keeping her cornflower blue eyes fixed steadily on the river. “How?”
“Wanza,” I asked, “did you know Russell’s old ranch on Hidden Lake had been sold?”
She shook her head.
“A lady has bought it. And this lady wants a companion—some one young and lively. I think she would pay you well for being—er—lively. And I am almost sure she would not object to the peddler’s cart, if you would give up your evenings to her—”
Wanza spoke abruptly. “No! Oh, no! No, indeed!” she declared.
I was puzzled. “Why,” I said, “I thought the plan a capital one.”
“But it isn’t. Just think of it, Mr. Dale. Daddy at home alone every evening, and me—all smugged up, asetting there on one side of the kitchen table—her on the other—me asewing, and her aknitting and asleeping in her chair. Oh, I think I have a large sized picture of myself doing it.”
“Wanza,” I began tactfully, “how old do you think the lady is?”
Wanza’s lips drew down, and she shook her head.
“She is not old,” I ventured.
“But I hate rich ladies when they’re middle-aged, Mr. Dale. A rich woman, middle-aged, is as bad as a poor one when she’s terrible, squeezy old. The rich one’ll want tea and toast in bed, and a fire in her bedroom.”
“Well,” I said, “I can’t vouch for the lady’s personal habits, but I’m quite certain she won’t nod over her knitting, and I shouldn’t call her middle-aged, Wanza.”
Wanza looked suddenly suspicious. “Is she the lady as came to your workshop, Mr. Dale?”
“Yes, Wanza.”
“How old would you say she was?”
“Not over twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six.” A suspicious glint darkened Wanza’s blue eyes. “Pretty?”
“Yes.”
The eyes glowered.
“Thirty a month would be a help, now, Wanza, wouldn’t it?” I wheedled.
Wanza threw out both arms, dropped back on the grass and lay with closed eyes. Presently she murmured faintly: “Did you say thirty a month?”
“I said thirty a month,” I repeated firmly.
One eye opened. Wanza kicked a pine cone into the river, opened the other eye, and stared at the tips of her copper-toed shoes fixedly.
“Thirty a month added to twenty-four—Mm! I could go to school next year, Mr. Dale.”
“You could.”
“I could learn how to talk.”
“How to talk correctly,” I amended.
“That’s what I meant. Well, it all depends.”
“On what, Wanza?”
“On her. If she’s a certain kind, I can’t go—if she isn’t, I can.”
“It sounds simple,” I decided.
We were silent for a time. I lay back with half closed eyes, watching a king-bird that had a nest in a cottonwood tree on the bank hard by. Presently Wanza spoke lazily:
“There’s a lot of those Dotted Blue butterflies hovering about, Mr. Dale—the gay little busy things—they look like flowers with wings.”
I unclosed my eyes and looked at the azure cloud before us.
“Those are the Acmon, girl. See the orange-red band on the hind wings. Look closely. The Dotted Blue have a dusky purplish band.”
“Of course. I don’t seem to learn very fast. But I’m getting to know the birds, and I do know heaps about the wild flowers. I never saw such big daisies as I saw to-day in the meadow back of our house—I don’t suppose you call them daisies—and a yellow-throat has a nest among ’em. Yes! Oh, the meadow looks like a snow field! I been watching the daisies—they close up at night, tight.”
“And they open with the dawn. Daisies are not very common in the west. I must have a look at your snow field.”
Wanza’s luxuriant hair of richest maize color was spread out in sheeny wealth over the pillow of pine needles on which her head rested. I reached out negligently and separated a long curl from its fellows. “How silky and fine it is,” I commented. Wanza lay motionless. “It would be wonderful—washed,” I murmured, half to myself.
Wanza kicked another pine cone into the river.
“Plenty of soap and a thorough rinsing,” I continued musingly.
“Let it alone,” Wanza commanded crossly, her light brows coming together over stormy eyes.
“I can’t,” I said teasingly. “My fingers are rough, and it clings.”
Wanza sat up quickly, cried “Ouch!” and the next instant I received a stinging slap on the cheek. I caught her by the elbows, got to my feet, and pulled her up beside me.
“I think I won’t recommend you to the lady who has bought Russell’s old ranch, after all,” I taunted. “She wouldn’t want a virago.”
She gave a smothered sound and put her head down suddenly into the crook of her arm, and I felt that she was weeping. I looked down at the sunny hair straying in beautiful disarray over the rough sleeve of my flannel shirt, and I experienced a pang of self-reproach. I had wounded her pride. I had offended grievously. Repentantly I attempted to lift the burrowing chin.
“I was only teasing, silly,” I was beginning.
Wanza’s head came up with an abrupt jerk, and—she bit me—a nasty, sharp little nip on my ingratiating finger.