Hiram was quiet for a space, and the Master could see a laughable air of doubt steal into his face as he ruffled the frill of hair that framed his smooth-shaved chin.
"An' then," put in Martha softly, "there's even a quieter spot nor yond that mud varry weel be mine for th' axing."
Hiram Hey ceased doubting. "What, dost mean that owd fooil Jose wod like to tak thee to th' wind-riven barn he calls a house?"
"Summat o' th' sort, Hiram—ay, he'd be fain, wod shepherd Jose. An' if th' house be i' a wildish spot—well, 'tis farther out o' harm's way."
"That sattles it. Wilt wed me afore th' corn ripens, lass, an' come to yond snug bigging dahn i' th' hollow?"
"I reckon I will, lad. Why didst not axe me plain afore?"
Then Hiram kissed her, under the left ear; and the Master, forgetting that they did not count upon a listener, laughed outright. Martha turned, with cheeks aflame like the peonies newly-opened in the garden place behind her; and Hiram lost his calmness for the moment.
"Thou dost well, Hiram," said the Master drily. "Love while thou canst, for thou'd'st better make the most of what few years are left thee."
Hiram took the stroke staunchly, knowing it was the return-thrust for many a home-blow he had given Wayne.
"An' so I bed, Maister," he answered, not shifting a muscle of his face—"by wedding one that counts no red folk i' her family."