"Don't be frightened," urged Hounshell, trying to speak gently; but his voice broke. It sounded abject rather than soothing. "I s'pose I'm making mistakes again. You can't understand me. Only this—think of this: I shall never get over it if you don't have me. You may do me a great wrong by turning me off. Can't you consider about this a little more?"
"I—I will try to consider, Mr. Hounshell," faltered Addie.
"Then I'll go; I'll bid you good-night," he said, regaining some of his customary stiffness.
"Good-night," she returned.
He got into the waiting buggy; there was a grinding of wheels, a puff of whitish dust from them, and then the dusk obliterated him, much to her relief. She went back into the house slightly paler than when she had left it.
"Father," she declared, "I never can marry that man."
"What! Hounshell?"
"Yes. There's something strange about him—and wrong."
"Careful! He's been our best friend, lass; there can't be anything wrong."
"All the same, I shall not marry him."