There was something singularly attractive in his voice—a simplicity and candor like a child's, and a suggestion of weakness that went straight to Ida's tender heart.
"But you'll get cold."
"Oh, no m'm; I'm used to it. Half the time I don't wear no gloves in winter 'less I'm handlin' things with snow on 'em," he said, to reassure her.
They moved off down the ravine to the north, the keen wind in their faces. There was no moon, and it was very dark, notwithstanding the light of the stars.
"How beautiful the sky is to-night!" said Ida, in a low voice.
"Magnificent!" Bradley replied; but he thought of her, not the stars. The team started up, and the worn old seat swayed from side to side so perilously that Bradley with incredible audacity put his arm around, and grasped the end of the seat on the other side of Ida.
"I'm afraid you'll fall out," he hastened to explain. She made no reply, and if she smiled he did not know it.
They climbed the slope on the other side of the bridge, and entered upon the vast rolling prairie, whose dim swells rose and fell against the stars. The roads were frightful—gullied with rain, and full of bowlders on the hillsides. The darkness added a certain wild charm and mystery to it all.
"How lonesome it seems! What a terrible place to live!" said Ida with a shudder.
"Civilization hasn't made much of an impress here, that's sure. How long has this prairie been settled?"