The Squire flushed angrily. “Let 'em try it and be damned!” he said.
“You can't lock the gate, Eben; if you do, she'll open it herself, and no blame to her.”
“She won't, I tell you. She's too young, and there's not a man I know fit to tie her little shoes.”
“How's young Prescott?”
“Young Prescott be damned!”
The Colonel hesitated. He had seen with an eye, sharpened with long and thorough experience, Jerome Edwards and Lucina the night of the party. “How's that young Edwards?”
Squire Merritt stared. “The smartest young fellow in this town,” he said, with a kind of crusty loyalty, “but when it comes to Lucina—Lucina!”
“I've liked that boy, Eben, ever since that night in Robinson's store,” said the Colonel, with a curious gravity.
“So have I,” returned the Squire, defiantly, “and before that—ever since his father died. He was the bravest little rascal. He's a hero in his way. I was telling Lucina the other day what he'd done. But when it comes to his lifting his eyes to her, to her—by the Lord Harry, Jack, nobody shall have her, rich or poor, good or bad. I don't care if he's a prince, or an angel from heaven. Don't I know what men are? I'm going to keep my angel of a child a while myself. I'll tell you one thing, sir, and that is, Lucina thinks more to-day of her old father than any man living; I'll bet you a thousand she does!” Squire Eben's voice fairly broke with loving emotion and indignation.
“Can't take you up, Eben,” said the Colonel, dryly; “I'd be too darned sure to lose, and I couldn't pay a dollar; but—to-morrow's coming.”