She pushed back the left side of his coat and taking one of the
rough, hairy leaves of the plant she located it over Peter's
heart, her slim, deft fingers patting down the leaf and
flattening it out until it lay pasted smooth and tight. As she
worked, she smiled at him challengingly. Peter knew he was
experiencing a ceremony of some kind, the significance of which
he must learn. It was the first time Linda had voluntarily
touched him. He breathed lightly and held steady, lest he
startle her.
"Lovely enough," he said, "to have come from the hills of the
stars. Don't make me wait, Linda; help me to the
interpretation."
"Buena Mujer," suggested Linda.
"Good woman," translated Peter.
Linda nodded, running a finger down the leaf over his heart.
"Because she sticks close to you," she explained. Then startled
by the look in Peter's eyes, she cried in swift change: "Now we
are all going to work for a minute. Katy's spreading the lunch.
You take this pail and go to the spring for water and I shall
tidy your quarters for you."
With the eye of experience Linda glanced over the garage deciding
that she must ask for clean sheets for the cot and that the
Salvation Army would like the heap of papers. Studying the
writing table she heard a faint sound that untrained ears would
have missed.
"Ah, ha, Ma wood mouse," said Linda, "nibbling Peter's dr, goods
are you?"
Her cry a minute later answered the question.
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