Luther laughed sheepishly.
“I hadn’t intended t’ see your good-nights,” he said honestly, “but I’d ’a’ made a worse mess of it by runnin’ than I did by settin’ still. Anyhow, you’re goin’ t’ be married in three days, an’ it needn’t make no difference. I’ve been a thinkin’ about you an’ I waited up t’ talk.” He made room on the step for her to sit beside him.
“Thinking about me?”
“Yes. Mrs. Hornby says your mother was here to-day. She’s kind of worried about it—you goin’ home, I mean. I don’t know about that—I hope It’ll be all right. Try an’ make it right, Lizzie. Th’ Hunters go a good deal on looks.”
Elizabeth was silent.
Luther felt it and interpreted her silence rightly.
“Is that something I’m not to talk about, Lizzie?” he asked.
The question hurt worse than the statement.
“I—I—don’t know why you ask me such a thing, Luther,” she faltered.
Luther arose. He was not to be offended, nor would he put away what he had waited to say.