I gave it to her.
“And now,” she said, replacing it on another finger, “Cousin Kirk, let me introduce to you the gentleman to whom I am to be married—Mr. Higginbotham, of Boston.”
“Salem,” I corrected, in a dazed way.
“Of Salem. Cousin Kirk—congratulate him.”
Cousin Kirk looked at her, at me, and at the board fence.
“As a gentleman, sir, I have no other thing to do. Of course—if my cousin loves you—you may keep the ring. Though I must allow, sir, you shoot rather late.”
With this one simple sarcasm he departed. Jeanie and I watched him groping in the long grass of the next lot for his revolver and then go slouching down the road. We turned and our eyes met. I tried to take her hand; but suddenly her face grew scarlet. “Oh, what have I done?” and she rushed into the house.
I went back to Salem.
I stayed there just four days. In New York I met Jerry Sullivan and had a talk with him. He will, in future, suppress his sense of humor when inditing telegrams.