"We wants ter hev speech with Brother Fulkerson," came the unrecognized voice of a stranger whose hat brim shielded his face in the darkness.
"He hain't hyar an' he won't be back afore midday ter-morrow," responded the girl with ingenuous composure. "I kain't hardly invite ye in—because I'm hyar all alone," she added with a disarming gravity. "Will ye leave any message?"
Out there among the shadows she heard the murmurs of a whispered consultation, and despite a palpitation of fear she bravely held the picture.
Then, partly because her manner carried conviction against suspicion, and partly because to enter would be to reveal identities, the voice shouted back: "No, thank ye, ma'am. I reckon we'll fare on."
CHAPTER XIII
Before Henderson had come that night, Blossom had been trying to study, but the pages of her book had developed the trick of becoming blurred.
Two faces persisted in rising before her imagination; one, the reproachful countenance of Bear Cat, whom she ought to love whole-heartedly; the other, that of Henderson, whom she told herself she admired only as she might admire the President of the United States or the man who had written the dictionary—with distant and respectful appreciation.
"He says I'm all right," she mused, "but I reckon he knows in his heart that I ain't good enough fer him—ner fer his folks."
Tears sprang into her eyes at the confession, and her reasoning went upon the rocks of illogic. "In the first place," she irrelevantly argued, "I'm in love with Bear Cat—an' in the second to think about Mr. Henderson would be right smart like crying for the moon."
Then Henderson had come; had come asking refuge from danger. He had declared his love with tumultuous force—and it seemed to Blossom that, after all, the moon was hers without crying for it.