"Howd'y'do, S'phiry Ann?"
The half-twisted thread fell from her fingers, writhed and rolled along the floor, fair sport for the kitten lazily coiled on the hearth, while she turned toward the secretly wished-for, but unexpected, visitor. She trembled, and the color in her face flushed and paled.
"Gabe!" Then quickly, and with a swift searching glance toward the road, "is it safe for you ter be here?"
"Yes, they air gone—an' ter the devil, I hope." He leaned against the wall, jaded, forlorn-looking, the week of hiding out not improving either temper or appearance.
"Take a cheer, an' set down, Gabe," she said, a vibration of tenderest pity in her voice.
"I ain't a-keerin' tu rest jest yit. That was a good turn you done us t'other night. No tellin' where we would be now ef it hadn't 'a' be'n fer that. I don't know how to thank you fer it, S'phiry Ann," he said, with strong emotion in his voice.
"Don't, Gabe!" she stammered, stooping to snatch the tangled thread from the paws of the kitten.
"Would you 'a' done it fer me?"
"'Tain't fair tu be axin' sech questions," she said defensively.
"'Cordin' tu promise you air tu marry me."