“I’d hate to stake my pile on that,” observed the Girl, drily. She blew up each glove as it came off and likewise carefully laid them away in the bureau drawer.
By this time Wowkle’s soft tread had ceased, her duties for the night were over, and she stood at the table waiting to be dismissed.
“Wowkle, git to your wigwam!” suddenly ordered her mistress, watching her until she disappeared into the cupboard; but she did not see the Indian woman’s lips draw back in a half-grin as she closed the door behind her.
“Oh, you’re sending her away! Must I go, too?” asked Johnson, dismally.
“No—not jest yet; you can stay a—a hour or two longer,” the Girl informed him with a smile; and turning once more to the bureau she busied herself there for a few minutes longer.
Johnson’s joy knew no bounds; he burst out delightedly:
“Why, I’m like Dante! I want the world in that hour, because, you see, I’m afraid the door of this little paradise might be shut to me after—Let’s say this is my one hour—the hour that gave me—that kiss I want.”
“Go long! You go to grass!” returned the Girl with a nervous little laugh.
Johnson made one more effort and won out; that is, he succeeded, at last, in getting her in his grasp.
“Listen,” said the determined lover, pleading for a kiss as he would have pleaded for his very life.