“Yes, that’s so,” said Beetrus sadly. “And then if one would die and leave the other”—
“Now, now, don’t you fret, lovey. I’ve had consider’ble trouble and experience, and if I don’t sigh round, you needn’t. Who’s that nice-looking man that keeps looking back this way?”
Beetrus had been facing down river, with her mind completely closed to any moving figures on deck. She glanced back over her shoulder.
“Why, it’s”—she exclaimed, swallowing her breath with a gasp—“it’s Mr. Poundstone.”
“That correspondent of yours?” said Mrs. Jenkins, nodding her head, and inspecting him sincerely with such thoroughness as intervening barrels permitted.
Beetrus’s ears rang. She had, however, that instinctive western courage which sometimes takes the place of disciplined self-control; so by no other clue than the deepening fire of her cheeks and eyes did she give Mr. Poundstone any knowledge of the disturbance he brought her when he climbed a passage over impediments and placed himself in the party.
His manner was subdued, even becomingly humble and conciliatory.
“Ma, this is Mr. Poundstone,” said Beetrus, secretly triumphant in being free from the subservience which yesterday would have made her say, “Mr. Poundstone, this is my mother.”
She did not add to her unconsidered formula now, but allowed him to lift his hat and bow over her mother’s hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins,” said he. “I want to make friends with you, and get you to convince your daughter I’m not such a bad fellow as I look.”