When he reached the nester’s cabin, the dog Nig greeted him with vociferous affection, bringing Hagar to the door.
“Oh, it’s Rex!” cried the girl delightedly. And then, reproachfully: “Me an’ dad allowed you wasn’t comin’ any more!”
“You an’ dad was a heap mistaken, then,” he grinned as he dismounted and trailed the reins over the pony’s head. “I’ve had a heap to ’tend to,” he added as he stepped on the porch and came to a halt, looking at her. “Why, I reckon the little kid I used to know ain’t here any more!” he said, his eyes alight with admiration, as he critically examined her garments from the distance that separated her from him—a neat house dress of striped gingham, high at the throat, the bottom hem reaching below her shoe-tops; a loose-fitting apron over the dress, drawn tightly at the waist, giving her figure graceful curves. He had never thought of Hagar in connection with beauty; he had been sorry for her, pitying her—she had been a child upon whom he had bestowed much of the unselfish devotion of his heart; indeed, there had been times when it had assumed a practical turn, and through various ruses much of his wages had been delicately forced upon the nester. It had not always been wisely expended, for he knew that Catherson drank deeply at times.
Now, however, Randerson realized that the years must inevitably make a change in Hagar. That glimpse he had had of her on the Flying W ranchhouse porch had made him think, but her appearance now caused him to think more deeply. It made constraint come into his manner.
“I reckon your dad ain’t anywhere around?” he said.
“Dad’s huntin’ up some cattle this mornin’,” she told him. “Shucks,” she added, seeing him hesitate, “ain’t you comin’ in?”
“Why, I’ve been wonderin’” and he grinned guiltily “whether it’d be exactly proper. You see, there was a time when I busted right in the house without waitin’ for an invitation—tickled to get a chance to dawdle a kid on my knee. But I reckon them dawdle-days is over. I wouldn’t think of tryin’ to dawdle a woman on my knee. But if you think that you’re still Hagar Catherson, an’ you won’t be dead-set on me dawdlin’ you—Why, shucks, I reckon I’m talkin’ like a fool!” And his face blushed crimson.
Her face was red too, but she seemed to be less conscious of the change in herself than he, though her eyes drooped when he looked at her.
He followed her inside and formally took a chair, sitting on its edge and turning his hat over and over in his hands, looking much at it, as if it were new and he admired it greatly.
But this constraint between them was not the only thing that was new to him. While she talked, he sat and listened, and stole covert glances at her, and tried to convince himself that it was really Hagar that was sitting there before him.