That intelligent animal did not move. A flush of mortification overspread the face of the would-be amorous swain. A balky horse, and at the start! What chance would he have to deliver his precious message that was to make two hearts happy? He clicked again to the horse, but again the horse continued to stand still.
“You might unhitch him, Mr. Phillips. That would help,” said Mildred, in her sweet voice.
“Oh, yes—t-to be sure! I must have tied him. I mean I—er—I di—I think I did hitch—er—”
“There seems to have been a hitch somewhere,” she answered.
He stepped out of the sleigh and looked over his shoulder at her in a startled way. Could she mean anything? Was this encouragement? Oh, no! It was too soon. (Too soon, and he had been in love two years!) He unhitched the horse and once more placed himself beside his loved one.
The frosty night seemed to have set a seal upon her lips, for as they sped over the crunching snow and left the town behind them she was silent.
“I must have offended her. I’ve probably made a break of some kind,” said Littlewood to himself. “How unfortunate! But I must tell her to-night. It is now or never. She knows I never took anybody but my mother sleigh-riding before.”
Then began a process of nerving himself to the avowal. He ground his knees together until the bones ached. His breathing was feverish.
Finally he made bold to say: “Mildewed.” And then he stopped. He had never called her Mildred before. He had never called her Mildewed either, but that was accidental, and he hoped that she had not noticed the slip.
