Then with a sudden burst of laughter she exclaimed:
“Oh, I'm going to egg Steve on to a fight! Wouldn't it be fun! I wonder if Steve could fight!”
“Reckon he could,” said the old man with a gleam in his eye that seemed to pierce the darkness of his glasses. “He don't look it exact an' his manners don't promise it, but ther may be fight in him somewhere. Ther be men, yer know, can't talk even about ther weather without shakin' a fist in yer face. He ain't thet kind.”
“No. If he were he would have murdered Sarah Maria long ago.”
“He would thet, fer a fact. Then ther's others thet air so afeard—so skeart thet a two-year-old bootblack or ther shadder of publick derishion could put 'em ter flight. Be thet his kind?”
“I guess not!” blazed Nannie. “Steve's afraid of nothing, living or dead.”
“No, he ain't afeard. I kin see thet; but he's peaceable.”
Just at this moment Nannie glanced down the sloping sides of the ravine and saw Hilda Bretherton panting her way up toward the house. Now, these two had not met since Hilda married and started off on her wedding trip to France, shortly before Nannie became engaged. True to the usual direction of her popularity, Hilda had married a small man, beside whom she looked the good-natured giantess she indeed was, but he was enormously rich, and in her particular set she was accounted one of fortune's favorites.
Since casting her lot in the country Nannie had been into town but little. For society as she had known it she cared nothing. Then, too, marriage had entered the magic circle of the Young Woman's Club and changed its membership, so that Nannie felt herself an alien. She was not consciously lonely in the country, but yet there was something so significant in the glad cry she uttered when she caught sight of Hilda, and the unusual warmth of her greeting, that old Hayseed looked on from his side of the fence with a meditative air.
“The colt's a-yearnin' fer somethin' without knowin' it,” he said to himself as Nannie dragged Hilda into the house.