"I don't know," observed Hounshell, shaking his head. He tried to bring his regulation smile into play, but the springs would not work. He was really attached to the girl; and there was a painful longing in his mind, besides another motive, of which he could not speak. He was unnerved.
Presently they went into the house. "Won't you stay to supper?" suggested Scofield.
"No, thank'ee. I'm going. Addie!"
"Yes, sir." She looked at him from her cool, liquid eyes as steadily and with as much unconsciousness in her clear-lined face as if she had never heard him speak of marriage.
"I've a word to say, if you'll come out to the gate."
"All right." Addie put the cups on the table for her father and herself, and then followed Hounshell, who bade the weaver good-night.
"I want you to treat me differently," said the miller, when they were alone. "This is a very serious matter, and there's more in it than you think. You ought to consider your father."
The girl's eyes flashed. "You don't mean," she began, "that you—"
"No, I don't mean any harm to him, of course. Take me or leave me, he'll be all right. But if you take me, my father-in-law don't remain in the weaving-room, by a long shot. I'll make him my partner instid."
Addie appeared to weigh this.