McGuire, blushing, removed his bearskin overcoat that he had put on up in the hills that afternoon.
“I presume papa has thanked you for rescuing me so heroically,” she said, looking at him.
“He has, but it was not necessary.”
“But it is right, and I must thank you also.”
“Then, if you thank me, I am glad, for you did not seem to appreciate my efforts at the moment.”
“Who could? I was scared out of my wits; I took you for a horrid bear, and that was the first time I ever fainted in all my life; and that’s more than some of your Western girls can say, who are so sensible, self-possessed, and brave.”
“I thought,” said McGuire, smiling back at the young lady, “it might be because we had not been properly introduced. You have doubtless heard of the Boston girl who was drowning, but refused to be rescued upon that ground?”
“I have not heard it, and I should not believe it if I had. Boston girls are as sensible as Denver girls or San Francisco girls. I don’t know that we have been introduced yet,” she added, with a little toss of her head, and her words went straight to the heart of McGuire.
He felt that he ought to go, and yet he knew that her father had left her in his care, and that he would be expected to remain in the drawing-room until the merchant had finished his cigar. To add to his confusion she let her window shade fly up, and, apparently ignoring his presence, was looking out upon the cold, shrouded world, that seemed so wild and wide.
“Ah!” said the old gentleman, entering the room, “I feel better now; first good smoke I’ve had since dinner.”