When Tavia read bits of his letters, even to Dorothy, she skipped all mention of Lance’s romance and his marriage. This she did, it is true, because of a mischievous desire to plague her chum and Ned and Nat. Of late, since affairs had become truly serious between Nat and herself, she would have at any time explained the joke to Nat had she thought of it, or had he asked her about Lance.
The very evening previous to the arrival of this letter from the cowpuncher to which Nat had so unwisely objected, Nat and Tavia had gone for a walk together in the crisp December moonlight and had talked very seriously.
Nat, although as full of fun as Tavia herself, could be grave; and he made his intention and his desires very plain to the girl. Tavia would not show him all that was in her heart. That was not her way. She was always inclined to hide her deeper feelings beneath a light manner and light words. But she was brave and she was honest. When he pinned her right down to the question, yes or no, Tavia looked courageously into Nat’s eyes and said:
“Yes, Nat. I do. But somebody besides you must ask me before I will agree to—to ‘make you happy’ as you call it.”
“For the good land’s sake!” gasped Nat. “Who’s business is it but ours? If you love me as I love you——”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Tavia, with laughter breaking forth. “‘No knife can cut our love in two.’ But, dear——”
“Oh, Tavia!”
“Wait, honey,” she whispered, with her face close pressed against his shoulder. “No! don’t kiss me now. You’ve kissed me before—in fun. The next time you kiss me it must be in solemn earnest.”
“By heaven, girl!” exclaimed Nat, hoarsely. “Do you think I am fooling now?”
“No, boy,” she whispered, looking up at him again suddenly. “But somebody else must ask me before I have a right to promise what you want.”