Alison sat silent, still gazing at Chico’s ears. The effect of Neal’s speech was such as surprised her. She trembled violently; her heart beat fast; she could not speak; she wanted to cry; she wished she could run away and hide; she dared not look at her companion. They rode along in silence, Neal, once in a while stealing a glance at her.
At last he said gently: “Have I skeered you, little girl?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Alison helplessly, after a minute. “I think—I’m going to cry.” And she put her head down on Chico to hide her feelings.
Neal at once stopped his horse, dismounted and lifted the girl from her saddle. “That isn’t comfortable,” he said. “If you want to cry, why cry ahead, but do it right.” And she wept softly on his shoulder for a moment.
But presently she dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up with a smile. “Did you ever know such a silly thing?” she said. “What is there to cry about?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Ask me something easy, but if you wanted to cry I wasn’t going to object.”
“Oh, Neal, Neal,” said the girl, “you have bewildered me. I don’t know where I stand.”
“Right here by me, where I hope your place will be while we both live,” he said with an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice.
“You see I’ve never thought of you in that way.”
“It isn’t too late to begin.”