The great Dagon, not altogether comprehending this threat, listened with an attentive bald head upturned, a damp and open mouth, his two bare feet stretched out motionless, one above the other, and his décolleté red calico dress quite off one stalwart shoulder. But with a gurgle and a bounce he let it pass, with only his usual sharp-tempered squeal of rebuke, and then placidly addressed himself anew to discover what gustatory qualities lurked in the unpromising, unsucculent wisp of flax.
"Mose an' me air keepin' house," observed Letitia. "Mis' Yates air a-dryin' apples down yander by the spring."
Guthrie's glance discovered the mottled calico dress and purple sun-bonnet of Adelaide at some distance down the slope, as she spread the fruit upon a series of planks laid in the sun.
"It air jes' ez well," he said, gloomily. "I dun'no' ez I keer ter see her ter-day."
Letitia, as she swayed forward and flung the flax across the wires, cast a surprised glance upon him. "Ye air toler'ble perlite fur so soon in the mornin'—I notice ginerally ez perliteness grows on ye ez the day goes on—cornsiderin' ye air a-settin' on her doorstep, an' this air her house."
"I want ter see jes' you-uns," he indirectly defended himself. He took off his hat, the wind tossing his curling hair as he leaned backward against the post of the porch; he started to speak again, then hesitated uncertainly.
If she noticed that he had lost his wonted slow composure, the discovery did not affect her. She still swung back and forth in her rocking-chair, as nonchalantly as the thrush swayed on the vibrating bough.
"Letishy," he said at last, "I wisht ye wouldn't 'bide hyar."
Her eyes widened. "Perliteness do grow on ye," she exclaimed. "Whar air ye 'lowin' I hed better 'bide?"
The opportunity was not propitious. Nevertheless he seized it. "I wish ye'd marry me an' 'bide up on the mounting at my house," he said, breathlessly.