"Hetty," said he, "we've got to put off the wedding again. We can't be married yet."
"Why not?"
The sheriff gave a short laugh. "I don't want you a widow as soon as you're a wife."
"What's the matter, Lafe? What do you talk that way for? A widow?"
"Moffatt's somewhere around here, I'll swear," said the sheriff. "Jeff Thomas sent me a letter to-day—here, look. He says Steve swears he'll get me."
"Well?"
They were standing in the front room of the Widow Brown's. Lafe sat down and tried to talk naturally, preferring not to take cognizance of the probing of Hetty's eyes.
"You see, hon, Steve is the last of the ol' tough bunch. I'll get him. It'll only take a few days—something's sure to break right away—don't look so scared, hon—we'll be married in a month, I bet you."
Hetty looked down at him like a queen of tragedy in a ten-twenty-thirty tent show performance. She said slowly: "No, we won't. I've got a feeling we won't ever be married."
"Pshaw!" said Johnson. "Don't talk like that."