“You saw me go past, then, didn’t you?”
“Was it you?” said she, fitting her foot deftly to the steep descent.
“Let me lift you down. How pretty you look this morning!”
“Oh! don’t talk about pretty, Mr. Poundstone,” said Beetrus, dyed in color, after he had stood her upon the moss, dazed as she always was by his prevailing presence.
“You oughtn’t to have hid; I want to talk up a scheme with you right off. It popped into my head since I got off the train.”
“What scheme?” said Beetrus, hugging her shawl and looking over her shoulder to simulate complete indifference.
“You know well enough, or can guess. We mustn’t be parted, my dear girl; I can’t run up to New Harmony every time I make a trip down this way. Think of the long winter. Don’t you want to see me this winter?”
“Oh—yes,” she admitted, with a gasp.
“I want to see you. I want to have you entirely to myself, to look forward to every time I come in off the road. Let’s get married.”
Beetrus visibly expanded and contracted with a great breath.