We went on just the same for a week or two, friendly, pleasant, but some influence I could not shake off drew me nearer. Even now I suppose Dan was a fascinating man, since girls yielded so readily to his sway and older women made friends with him.
It was the full of the harvest moon, a magnificent, glowing night. There were some corn-husking bees to wind up with a dance in a new barn. There were boats going out rowing, for the lake was like a sea of glass. Dan really hated the water—I loved it dearly, but the great lake was occasionally deceitful at its blandest, and often a monster in its power to small craft. The larger vessels were safe enough. Father and I took a sail now and then, but Dan never went for pleasure.
"Ruth," he said this evening, "do you remember the ride you once had on Chita? Come out and take another. There may not be a night like this in a year again."
"Oh, I was such a little girl then. And we cannot both ride her now," I protested.
"Why not?" In the moon floods of light his eyes transfixed me.
"Because I am so much larger. And you have grown stouter."
He laughed. "See here," and catching me with one hand he whirled me off the steps and clear around.
"You weigh about seventy-five pounds," gravely. "If I asked Chita to carry seventy-five pounds of grain and my stoutness she would go off like a bird."
"I weigh ninety-two," I returned with dignity.
"If it was ninety-four you would have to ride all the same," in a determined tone. "Do you want anything about you? But it is like a summer night. Come, I told your father I was going to take you. Or would you rather go to the dance?"