THE TURNING-POINT
“I am, but I don’t wonder at your askin’,” said the man humbly. “I’ve kind o’ fancied you for years; but you’ve always been way down there across the fields, out o’ reach!”
“I’m too amazed to think it out,” faltered Amanda.
“Don’t you think it out, for God’s sake, or you’ll never do it!” He caught at her hand as if it had been a life-line—her kind, smooth hand, the helpful hand with the bit of white cambric bound round a finger burned in his service.
“It was the kitchen that put the courage into me,” he went on feverishly. “I laid here an’ thought: ‘If she can make a house look so different in a week, what could she do with a man?’”
“I ain’t afraid but I could,” stammered Amanda; “if the man would help—not hinder.”
“Just try me, Amanda. I would n’t need a year—honest, I would n’t—I could show you in three months!”
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