“Mary Ann,” commanded her mother sternly, “answer me—be you?”
“Yes, ma,” answered Mary Ann, and she snuggled down again.
“Well,” flared the widow, “if it’s so, it’s so. Bill Paisley,” she cried, “you get off my property and don’t you come back here no more. You kin steal a poor widder’s only daughter,” she sobbed, dropping the kettle and covering her face with her apron, “but you can’t come here and do it. You’d better get off my place.”
Paisley patted the girl’s hair and picked up his rifle.
“I’m sorry you take it that way, widder,” he stammered. “I hate to go, and now I smell that bacon you’ve been cookin’ I just naturally hate to go more’n ever. I always said that widder Ross could fry bacon like no other woman this side of the creek——”
“Me’n Mary Ann be the only women on this side,” snorted the widow, dropping her apron.
“I mean anywhere in Bushwhackers’ Place, marm,” bowed Bill. “I always remember them pies you made for Mac’s loggin’-bee, and the puddin’ for Declute’s, too.”
“I suppose there’s no hurry for your goin’,” sighed Mrs. Boss, “and I’ll own I did cook more’n enough meat this mornin’; for why, I don’t know. So if you want to, you kin come in and eat breakfast. But,” she added, “you’ll sure have to get off my property after you’ve et.”
The good lady picked up her kettle and whisked into the house. Paisley smiled at Mary Ann.
“You always have such a way of gettin’ round ma,” laughed the girl.