Lowell was on the point of making some bitter reply about the undesirability of any guardianship assumed by Willis Morgan, squaw man, recluse, and recipient of common hatred and contempt. But he kept his counsel, and remarked, pleasantly:
"My rights are merely those of a neighbor—the right of one neighbor to help another."
"There are no rights of that sort where the other neighbor isn't asking any help and doesn't desire it."
"I'm not sure about your not needing it. Anyway, if you don't now, you may later."
The girl did not answer. The horses were standing close together, heads drooping lazily. Warm breezes came fitfully from the winds' playground below. The handkerchief at the girl's neck fluttered, and a strand of her hair danced and glistened in the sunshine. The graceful lines of her figure were brought out by her riding-suit. Lowell put his palm over the gloved hand on her saddle pommel. Even so slight a touch thrilled him.
"If a neighbor has no right to give advice," said Lowell, "let us assume that my unwelcome offerings have come from a man who is deeply in love with you. It's no great secret, anyway, as it seems to me that even the meadow-larks have been singing about it ever since we started on this ride."
The girl buried her face in her hands. Lowell put his arm about her waist, and she drooped toward him, but recovered herself with an effort. Putting his arm away, she said:
"You make matters harder and harder for me. Please forget what I have said and what you have said, and don't come to see me any more."
She spoke with a quiet intensity that amazed Lowell.
"Not come to see you any more! Why such an extreme sentence?"