"Or my ear," he added, with such a look of comic distress that she dropped her fish-pole into the water with a merry laugh; then, as he joined in the merriment, the startled mocking-bird overhead hushed its song, and flitted away to some quieter nook.
"Now, if we are not more careful, we will have to dine on humility to-day," she said, as he recovered the fishing-tackle. "But do you really grow lonesome in your new home, Mr. Warlow?" she added.
"Yes, indeed I did," said Clifford, with an emphasis on the past tense that indicated the remoteness of those days. "But we were very busy until recently, and I did not fully realize what a hermit I had become until I came here into the crowd, and found myself growing hot and cold by turns, my heart palpitating, and my hands and feet getting heavy. Then I knew it would only be a matter of time when I should fly, like a South Sea Islander, at very sight of a human face, much less the presence of a fashionable young lady;" and he joined Miss Estill's merriment at his charming candor, with an easy laugh.
"Oh, I appreciate the situation," she replied; "for when they sent me to Cincinnati to the boarding-school, where all was so strange, and the only ray of sunshine in the long weeks, months, and years was a flitting call from my fashionable aunt, or the yearly visits to my Western home, I felt desolate and miserable. Why, I was so shy, and possibly a bit wild, that I gained the name of Antelope among my school-mates;" and Miss Estill smiled somewhat sadly at remembrance of those past days.
"When you returned to your home, it certainly must have seemed lonely after the life in that 'American Florence,'" said young Warlow.
"Oh, it was paradise! I could scarcely believe that the old days of banishment were over; and indeed I half feared, sometimes, that they would pack me off again. It was such a perfect joy to be back at the dear old ranch once more with Hugh and my parents, that I vowed I should never leave again. But when I had been back a year I did sometimes long for a good, confidential chat with my girl friends, and would be a bit lonesome while Hugh was away; but our life is one ceaseless round of labor, toil, and care, so I have short time for repining. Would you believe, Mr. Warlow, that more than half the time all the duties of housekeeper, unaided, devolve upon me? Our house has been a constant panorama of 'domestic' weddings since I returned from school; yes, and for years before also. No sooner would we begin to appreciate some household treasure—a Nora, Ruth, or Nelly, who had come from the East to lessen our domestic burdens—than along would come some spruce ranchman or handsome young homesteader, and—presto!—our domestic was courted away in a twinkling to brighten a new home. And what with the wedding which mamma always insists upon, and the bridal finery she bestows, the burden is redoubled. My weary shoulders fairly ache as we pass through the constant, or tri-yearly, recurrence of the same experience. Hugh says that he believes the servant-girls of the East have finally come to look upon our house as a matrimonial agency."
"Do you not think, Miss Estill, that the bright new homes, which are a result of your charities, are sufficient reward for your domestic martyrdom?"
"Oh, if you think our providing wives for the miscellaneous ranchers, herders, and homesteaders could be called a charity, I will have to say that our furthering of those matches has proved a mixed blessing indeed; for I recall a world of conjugal infelicity which has followed those hasty and ofttimes ill-assorted matches. 'Marry at pleasure,' etc., is a maxim true as it is trite, Mr. Warlow."
"Yes; it is undeniable that unhappy matings do occur; but I can not see how a lonesome bachelor, who eats his own vile cooking and goes through the vain ceremony of laundry-work, could ever aggravate his deplorable condition, Miss Estill."
"But the fact remains that he certainly does," she replied, with a low gurgling laugh, like the ripple of some sweet, clear brook. "Why, Mr. Warlow, I recall a scene of which I was the innocent witness one evening last month. I was riding by the ranch of Mr. Blank, who had wooed and won our cook after a courtship that was as brief as it was fervid. I have reason to believe he pines for his former state of untrammeled freedom; for, in some argument which they seemed to be discussing that evening, she, his faithful helpmeet, hurled the milk-stool at his head. I rode quickly away, mentally washing my hands of any further matrimonial schemes.