“To own her—such a creature—God—it were worth risking my neck.”
The mention of Harry brought back all her bitter recklessness to Helen. She was but a child and her road, indeed, was hard. And as she turned at the old gate and looked back at the vanishing buggy she said:
“Had he asked me this evening I'd—yes—I'd go to the end of the world with him. I'd go—go—go—and I care not how.”
Richard Travis was in a jolly mood at the supper table that night, and Harry became jolly also, impertinently so. He had not said a word about his cousin being with Helen, but it burned in his breast, and he awaited his chance to mention it.
“I have thought up a fable since I have been at supper, Cousin Richard. Shall I tell you?”
“Oh”—with a cynical smile—“do!”
“Well,” began Harry unabashed, and with many sly winks and much histrionic effort, “it is called the 'Fox and the Lion.' Now a fox in the pursuit ran down a beautiful young doe and was about to devour her when the lion came up and with a roar and a sweep of his paw, took her saying ...”
“'Get out of the way, you whelp,'” said his cousin, carrying the fable on, “for I perceive you are not even a fox, but a coyote, since no fox was ever known to run down a doe.”
The smile was gradually changed on his face to a cruel sneer, and Harry ceased talking with a suddenness that was marked.