But the sudden appearance of Larkin and the enthusiastic renewal of a former intimacy had spurred Stelton to seek some sort of a definite understanding. Bissell’s retirement to the veranda after the noonday meal was shortly followed by Stelton’s appearance there, timorous and abashed.
The interview had been short and not very satisfactory. The cowman, remembering with considerable pain the conversation with his daughter, told his employé frankly that he had better give up any such ideas as evidently possessed him. Stelton, who had with some right formerly felt he might count on the favorable attitude of his chief, was astounded, and took the venom of the curt refusal to heart.
Retiring without betraying his emotion, he had resolved to speak to the girl herself, and that same afternoon asked permission to accompany her on 87 her daily ride across the prairies, a thing not unusual with him.
Juliet, although she wished to be alone, consented, and at four o’clock they set out, unobserved by Bissell.
It was not until they had turned their horses homeward that Stelton spoke, almost tongue-tied by the emotions that rent him, alternate waves of fear and hope.
“Miss Julie,” he began, “I allow I’ve known you a long while.”
“Yes, Mike, you have.”
“An’ I allow that I would be plumb miserable if you ever went away from here again.”
“Thank you, Mike; I should miss you, too,” replied the girl civilly, growing uneasy at the unusual trend of the man’s speech, halting and indefinite though it was.
“Miss Julie, I ain’t no hand at fine talk, but I want to ask yuh if you will marry me? I’ve thought about it a lot, an’ though I ain’t noways good enough fer yuh, I’d try to make yuh happy.”