As we strolled back a little later to her horse that was tethered to a maple on the roadside, I told her of the success of the National Oil Company and of the possibility that I might some day be a rich man.
"As things go in the South, sweetheart, I'm a rich man now for my years."
"I am glad for your sake, Ben, but I have never expected to have wealth, you know."
"All the same I want you to have it, I want to give it to you."
"Then I'll begin to love it for your sake—if it means that to you?"
"It means nothing else. But what do you think it will mean to your aunts next November?"
She shook her head, while I untethered Dolly, the sorrel mare.
"They haven't a particle of worldliness, either of them, and I don't believe it will make any great difference if we have millions. Of course if you were, for instance, the president of the South Midland they would not have refused to receive you, but they would have objected quite as strongly to your marrying into the family. What you are yourself might concern them if they were inviting you to dinner, but when it is a question of connecting yourself with their blood, it is what your father was that affects them. I really believe," she finished half angrily, half humorously, "that Aunt Mitty—not Aunt Matoaca—would honestly rather I'd marry a well-born drunkard or libertine than you, whom she calls 'quite an extraordinary-looking young man.'"
"Then if they can neither be cajoled nor bought, I see no hope for them," I replied, laughing, as she sprang from my hand into her saddle.
The red flame of the maple was in her face as she looked back at me. "Everything will come right, Ben, if we only love enough," she said.