I never see a soul here; the woods, house, and everything is desolate until he comes home and then it is like----" she paused.
"I'll say it for you," said the Harvester promptly.

"Then it is like hell." "At its worst," supplemented the Girl.

Taking pencils and a sheet of paper she went swiftly through the woods.

Before she left the shelter of the trees, the Harvester saw her busy her hands with the front of her dress, and he knew that she was concealing the drawing material.

The colour box was left, and he said things as he put it with the chair and table, covered them with the rug and oilcloth, and heaped on a layer of leaves.
Then he drove to the city and Betsy turned at the hospital corner with no interference.