The young man continues to tug at the straps, pulling with all the power of his arms.
After a prolonged struggle, that turns him red in the face, he succeeds in shortening them by a single hole.
“Now, Miss Poindexter; I think it will do.”
“Perhaps it will,” rejoins the lady, placing her hand upon the horn of her saddle, and giving it a slight shake. “No doubt it will do now. After all ’tis a pity to start back so soon. I’ve just arrived here after a fast gallop; and my poor Luna has scarce had time to breathe herself. What if we stop here a while, and let her have a little rest? ’Tis cruel to take her back without it.”
“But your father? He seemed desirous you should—”
“That I should go home at once. That’s nothing. ’Twas only to get me out of the way of these rough men—that was all. He won’t care; so long as I’m out of sight. ’Tis a sweet place, this; so cool, under the shade of these fine trees—just now that the sun is blazing down upon the prairie. Let us stay a while, and give Luna a rest! We can amuse ourselves by watching the gambols of these beautiful silver fish in the stream. Look there, Mr Yancey! What pretty creatures they are!”
The young planter begins to feel flattered. Why should his fair companion wish to linger there with him? Why wish to watch the iodons, engaged in their aquatic cotillon—amorous at that time of the year?
He conjectures a reply conformable to his own inclinations.
His compliance is easily obtained.
“Miss Poindexter,” says he, “it is for you to command me. I am but too happy to stay here, as long as you wish it.”