“He is glad to see few men,” she warned. “He loves me, but to others he’s cold.”
“Politics,” assured Jackson. “Big men always have political bees swarming through their heads. I wouldn’t give a beaver’s pelt for all the political power they can develop in this whole country. I’m a free man, and you’re a free maid, and your politician is a slave. And you must love me, dear.”
“And I’m a free maid, and I must,” she quoted, drawing him out of range of the cabin.
“Elsie, not another step till I know,” he whispered. “I asked myself every step from the falls of the Ohio, but now, you must—please!”
“Then I must if I must,” she murmured, dancing ahead toward a natural arbour.
“Wait!” he cried. “I bring a belt from the Ohio to the dearest little girl in the world. It shows a white road leading to a little cabin, which shall be the happiest home in all the col—I mean the States.”
She seated herself on a log and he kneeled by her side. She remained silent, her eyes averted to hide her glorious confusion.
“I’ve brought my talk,” he whispered. “What does the wonderful little woman say to it? Does she pick up the belt, the white wampum, the one road leading to the cabin?”
“I like your talk,” she confessed. “Oh, I like it more than you can ever know, Kirk. But my father—he won’t let me pick your belt up.”
“I’m not asking your father to marry me,” he reminded.