She tried to scoff at him, but there was love in her eyes.
"Connie said once that you were Young-man-afraid-of-his-horses, but she doesn't know you. I believe you more than half mean it."
"I do mean it. If I sit here and look at you much longer I shall be begging you to make it nine o'clock instead of twelve. Don't ask me to wait very long. It'll be hard enough to go off and leave you afterward. It's a good bit more than a hundred miles in a straight line from Denver to Topeka Mountain."
"I'm going with you," she said calmly.
"You?—to live in a wicky-up on the side of a bald mountain? But you know what it is; you've been there. You'd die of the blues in a week."
"Would I?" She rose and stood beside his chair. "You don't know much about me, yet, do you? If the 'wicky-up' is good enough for you, it is good enough for me. I am going with you, and I'm going to make that dear little log cabin a place that you will always be glad to remember,—if I can."
He drew her down on the arm of the chair.
"Don't talk to me that way, Myra,—you mustn't, you know. I'm not used to it, and it breaks me all up. If you say another word I shall want to make it seven o'clock in the morning instead of nine."
"Can you wait a month?"
"No."