“God knows what will happen if he does not shake it off! my poor old Poppa, it will kill him.” Tears sprang to her eyes and her hands trembled amidst the crockery. Carol seized one and held it fast.
“Do not fret, Chrissie, I will take care of you, if you will let me. You know I love you and want to marry you. I have already asked Oom Nick and he has given his consent. Will you marry me, Chrissie?”
A bitter little smile twisted her lips. It seemed she had grown suddenly very desirable, since two men, within an hour, should ask her in marriage!
“I do not love you, Carol,” she said quietly. His face fell.
“I used to think, Chrissie—but lately you are so changed.”
“Yes, I am changed,” she answered staring out through the open door, to the tents away by the river. “I am changed, Carol. I wish I were not a Boer maisie.”
He did not understand this, but it sounded like treason, and he rebuked it.
“But you are a Boer maisie, Chrissie. And you must not forget it.”
“No, I shall never forget it,” she said slowly, “and because of it I will marry you, if you still wish it, Carol. I do not love you, but I will be a good wife to you.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, my Chrissie. I too will be a good man to you. You will see.”