They peeped
into the nesting places of canyon wrens and doves and finches,
and listened to the exquisite courting songs of the birds whose
hearts were almost bursting with the exuberance of spring and the
joy of home making. When they were tired out they went back to
the dining room and after resting a time, they made a supper from
the remnants of their dinner. When they were seated in the car
and Linda's hand was on the steering wheel, Donald reached across
and covered it with his own.
"Wait a bit," he said. "Before we leave here I want to ask you a
question and I want you to make me a promise."
"All right," said Linda. "What's your question?"
"What is there," said Donald, "that I can do that would give you
such pleasure as you have given me?"
Linda could jest on occasions, but by nature she was a serious
person. She looked at Donald reflectively.
"Why, I think," she said at last, "that having a friend, having
someone who understands and who cares for the things I do, and
who likes to go to the same places and to do the same things, is
the biggest thing that has happened to me since I lost my father.
I don't see that you are in any way in my debt, Donald."
"All right then," said the boy, "that brings me to the promise I
want you to make me. May we always have our Saturdays together
like this?"
"Sure!" said Linda, "I would be mightily pleased. I'll have to
work later at night and scheme, maybe.
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