He paid not the slightest attention. He was bending over her, his hand beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“Don't, Obed!” she begged.
“Thankful, you tell me. Did you think I asked you to marry me just because I pitied you. Just because I was sorry for you? Did you?”
“Obed, please!”
“Thankful, I've come to care for you more'n anything else in the world. I don't pity you. I've been pityin' myself for the last month because I couldn't have you—just you. I want you, Thankful Barnes, and if you'll marry me I'll be the happiest critter that walks.”
“Oh, Obed, don't make it so hard for me. You said you wouldn't. And—and you can't care—really.”
“I can't! Do you care for me? That's what I want to know.”
“Obed, you and I ain't young folks. We're gettin' on towards old age. What would folks say if—”
He threw his arms about her and literally lifted her from the chair.
“I don't care a durn WHAT they say,” he shouted, exultantly. “You've said what I was waitin' for. Or you've looked it, anyhow. Now then, WHEN shall we be married? That's the next thing for you to say, my girl.”