“But, he has never said that he loves me, although I own from his actions that I thought he did,” replied Leona.
“Very likely. He’s bashful; he’s not one of your city chaps, that have such a good opinion of themselves that they think every woman they meet is in love with them. He’s an honest fellow—as brave as a lion and as true as steel. I tell you what it is, Leona, if you don’t give the poor fellow some encouragement, I shall set my cap for him myself, for I give you fair warning that I am half in love with him already.”
“Why, Eunice!” and Leona looked into her friend’s face, half in reproach.
“There now, don’t be frightened. I shan’t take your lover away from you—probably for the best of all reasons, and that is, that I couldn’t get him if I wanted him!”
“But, if he loves me, why don’t he tell me so?” demanded Leona.
“Why?” cried Eunice. “Because he’s a bashful goose like you are. When we are riding at the head of the train, you and he say scarcely a word to each other, while the other guide, the one they call Abe, and I, have had fine chats together.”
“Why, no!” said Leona, in her earnest way, “you are quite wrong; he has told me all about his life—how he was born here on the frontier and has always lived on the prairie—how he has hunted buffalo, and some dreadful stories about the Indians.”
“And I dare say that you listened to him with those large eyes of yours opened to their widest extent, and that, with every word he spoke, you loved him more and more.”
“Yes,” murmured Leona, softly. “I do love him, and I know I shall never love any one else as I love him.”