“You don’t need to—we’ll call it even.”
And so the talk went until the sun had fallen for an hour and they knew it was time to go below.
“We will go to the meeting together,” she said, “and then father shall tell Brigham,—tell him—”
“That you’re going to marry me. Why don’t you say it?”
“That I’m going to marry you, and be your only wife.” She nestled under his arm again.
“For time and eternity—that’s the way your Church puts it.”
Then, not knowing it, they took their last walk down the pine-hung glade. Many times he picked her lightly up to carry her over rough places and was loth to put her down,—having, in truth, to be bribed thereto.
At their usual resting-place she put on her hat with the cherry ribbons, and he, taking off his own, kissed her under it.
And then they were out on the highroad to Amalon, where all was a glaring dusty gray under the high sun, and the ragged rim of the western hills quivered and ran in the heat.
He thought on the way down of how the news would be taken by the little bent man with the fiery eyes. She was thinking how glad she was that young Ammaron Wright had not kissed her that time he tried to at the dance—since kisses were like that.