"I began to think you were never coming back. Nanny Piaget came and told me. Dan Hayne, you must have been struck in a new spot, gallivantin' a lot of young ones round; and you so choice of that mare you hardly let a stray hand touch her. She's splendid, but my advice to you is to give up racing and all that and settle down, marry and have young ones of your own; but I'll venture a five months' shoot you won't be careering round prairies half the night with them. Ruth, ain't you going to light and let Dan go home?"
I held out my arms to father. Dan bent over and kissed me on the mouth, then handed me down.
"Gaynor, I think you're long headed buying all prairie land," he said. "It'll be a fortune for the Little Girl some day."
"Meanwhile it'll raise corn and feed hogs," father said with a chuckle. "Ruth, ain't you going to give a word of thanks for your safe return? Why Dan might have broken both your necks."
"Dan ain't that kind," laughed the young fellow in his proud strength. "Good-night, little one. John, I wish you'd go down to the Wabash with me and look at some cattle—say, in about ten days."
"I'll see," returned father.
I felt stiff and strange, as if I must walk on a sort of gallop and had no strength to do it. M'liss was all curiosity and insisted that we must have gone to the end of the world, and the supper was cold and not fit to eat because she had "het it over and over."
I did not want much and went to bed very soon. I still felt bewitched.
We all talked of our rides the next day at school, and thought Chita the most splendid horse in Chicago.
After Sunday School Polly Morrison came over with a curious glitter in her eyes and snatched at my hand.