“I come to ask a favour from you.”
“What is it, father?”
“You know that your cousin Cash loves you. He is ready to die for—more and better still, to marry you.”
“But I am not ready to marry him. No, father; I shall die first. The presumptuous wretch! I know what it means. And he has sent you to make this proposal! Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I’d go upon the prairies—and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! Tell him that!”
“Reflect, daughter! You are, perhaps, not aware that—”
“That my cousin is your creditor. I know all that, dear father. But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter.”
Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was:—
“Dearest Louise! image of your mother! I had doubted you. Forgive me, my noble girl! Let the past be forgotten. I shall leave it to yourself. You are free to refuse him!”