“And shurly I do—the best o’ news. Alf air now full master o’ the place, an’ thar’s nothin’ to hinder you from bein’ full mistress o’t. I know he intend makin’, you a offer o’ marriage, an’ I’ve reezun to b’lieve it’ll be done this very day. Brandon war buried day before yesserday.”
“If he does, father, I shall refuse him.”
“Refuse him!” cried the quondam squatter, half starting out of the chair in which he had just seated himself. “Lena, gurl! hev ye tuk leave o’ yur senses? Air ye in airnest?”
“I am, father. I mean what I’ve said.”
“Mean, darnation! ye’re eyether mad, gurl, or else talkin’ like a chile. D’ye know what refusin’ means?”
“I have not thought of it.”
“But I hev, over an’ over agin. It means beggary—preehap sturvation, for myself as well as you.”
“I’d rather starve than marry Alf Brandon.”
“Ye woud, woud ye? Then ye may hev a chance o’t, sooner’n ye think for. Ye’ve got an idea yur ole dad’s well to do; an’ so think a good many other folks. Thar’s been a house built, an’ a clarin’ made; but neyther’s been paid for. Jerry Rook don’t know the day he may hev to up sticks, an’ go back agin to some durned old crib o’ a cabin.”
“Father! I was as happy in our old cabin as I’ve ever been in this fine house. Ay, far happier.”