So had she spoken to her father years ago; so would she always speak when her reservations were threatened. "I declare I am afraid to go with you to-morrow."
McAlpin fell back in shamed contrition.
"You need not be afraid," he muttered. "I reckon I was bidding you—good-bye. Him and me is different. Once you see him and he sees you, it's good-bye to Jerry-Jo McAlpin."
Something in the words and tone of humility brought Priscilla, with a bound, back to a kindlier mood. After all, it was a tribute that McAlpin was paying her. She must hold him in check, that was all.
They parted with no great change. There had been a flurry, but it had served to clear the atmosphere—for her at least.
But Nathaniel, that evening in the kitchen, managed to arouse in the girl the one state of mind needed to drive her on her course.
"What was the meaning of that scuffling by the bars a time back?" he asked, eyeing Priscilla with the old look of suspicious antagonism. Every nerve in the girl's body twitched with resentment and her spirit flared forth. She shielded herself behind the one flimsy subterfuge that Glenn could never understand or tolerate.
"A kiss you mean. What's a kiss? You call that a scuffle?"
Theodora, who was washing the tea dishes while Priscilla wiped them, took her usual course and began to cry dispiritedly and forlornly.
"What's between you and—McAlpin?" Nathaniel asked, scowling darkly.