"Larch, is that you?" she asked, peering forward as if uncertain of his identity.
"I declare, it is Miss Jennie!" he exclaimed, coming forward; "how is it you are alone?"
"Mother did not wish to come with me," replied the daughter, trying to avoid the necessity of direct deceit. "She will probably leave the house pretty soon."
The fellow was plainly embarrassed, despite the protecting gloom which concealed his features. Jennie knew him to be one of her most ardent admirers, though she had never liked him. Her hopes were now based upon making use of his regard for her.
"You have come out, Jennie, I suppose," said he, offering his hand, which she accepted, "so as not to be in the house when the—ah, trouble begins."
"O, I know it will be dreadful; I want to go as far away as I can—do you blame me, Larch?"
"Not at all—not at all; and I hope, Jennie, you don't blame me for all that your folks have suffered."
"Why, Larch, why should I blame you?" asked the young lady, coming fearfully near a fiction in making the query, for she knew many good reasons for censuring him in her heart. "But how soon do you intend—that is, how soon do the rest of your folks intend to attack the cowmen?"
"We—that is, they—expected to do so long ago, but there have been all sorts of delays; it will come pretty soon now."
"Where are you to place mother and me?"