"You promise not to tell pa?"
"Course, I promise."
"Oh, Dallas!" She buried her face in her hands. "It's—it's that I—I like him! I like him!"
A moment of perplexity. Then, gradually, it dawned upon the elder girl whom the other meant. In very surprise her arms loosened their hold.
"You do hate me," Marylyn said plaintively.
"No, honey, no—why should I hate you?" Her words were earnest. But her voice—something had changed it. And she felt a strange hurt, a vague hurt that seemed to have no cause.
Marylyn raised herself on an elbow. "He liked me—once," she said. "He showed it, just as plain. It was right here, that day the cattle went by."
Dallas got up. She had begun to tremble visibly; her breath was coming short, as if she had been running.
But the younger girl did not notice. "He stayed away so long," she went on. "Then, to-day when he came—you remember, Dallas,—he just said a word or two to me, and laughed at me because I was afraid. And—and I saw that I was wrong, and I—I saw—he liked—you."
"Me!" Dallas turned. She felt the blood come driving into her face. She felt that strange hurt ease—and go in a rush of joyful feeling. Then, she understood the cause of it—and why she had trembled—why that day had been the happiest of her life.