“I’ve had a deal of practice, Miss,” he replied, laying a marked emphasis on the last word.
His heart throbbed audibly, as he awaited the rejoinder. Would she accept the title, or correct it?
He had already glanced at her left hand, holding a peach she had plucked. There were rings; but among them he saw not the plain circlet nor its keeper. Their absence inspired him with hope.
“One can easily see that,” she rejoined. “Besides, I am not unacquainted with the way of the woods. My father is a hunter, or was.”
“You say was, Miss. Is your father still living?”
The question was asked with a double design. Would she still permit herself to be called “Miss?” Was Jerry Rook the owner of the pretty house that had supplanted his rude sheiling?
“My father living? Certainly, sir; but he does not go hunting any more—or only at times. He has enough to keep him occupied about home—clearing the ground and planting the crops.”
“Is he at home now?”
“To-day, no. He has ridden over to Helena. I expect he will be back soon. Do you wish to see him, sir. You have some business, perhaps?”
“No, no. I was merely wandering through the woods, squirrel shooting. I had strayed to the other side of the creek, when I heard you cry.”