"Dad's funny," she said reflectively. "Whenever we get to a chuck-hole, where all of us ought to pull t'gether, he goes slack on the tugs. He's like Ben that way. So I have t' go up to him, stroke his mane, fix his curb, and let some cool air under his collar. After while, he gives a haw-hee-haw and goes on."
Lounsbury did not laugh. "He balked when it came to me," he said soberly. "And it hurt. Afterward—I kinda got it into my head that none of you wanted me."
She looked straight at him. "But one did—one did," she whispered, choking.
He pulled his hands free of his pockets. "One—one," he said huskily. "Who?"
And now everything was clear to her. She knew just what to say. She had no feelings of self; the duty was not hateful, nor embarrassing. "Who?" she repeated. "Don't you know, Mr. Lounsbury? Why, Marylyn."
"Marylyn," he echoed as if in a puzzle; "Marylyn. You're joking!"
She caught a shade of reproach in that, and misunderstood it. "I reckon you won't like her so well now," she said.
"Like her so well? I don't know what you mean."
"She—she likes you," stammered Dallas.
Still he was puzzled. "I supposed she didn't hate me."