"They don't know whether I'm any kin to you or not."
"Yes, they do. They know that I haven't any young men kin folks round here but cousin Jerry."
"Who the deuce is he? Hold on a moment. Tell me about that fellow Jerry."
"Oh, there ain't nothin' to tell except he's my cousin. If you let me go in alone I'll tell you all about him when I come out."
He suffered her to go in alone, but he sat as close to her as he could, on a bench just opposite, and it was so evident that he wanted to be nearer that a hillside wag remarked to a friend; "See that young feller a leanin' in toward her like a young steer with a sore neck." The remark was passed from one to another and a titter went round the room. Warren saw her blush and realizing that he was the cause of her embarrassment, he leaned back, and the wag remarked: "Other side of his neck's sore now—he's leanin' tuther way."
Lyman and the old man walked about the grounds. Pitt suggested going to the spring, but Lyman drew back from the idea as if the place were desolate now. They went down the road to a mossy place where the ironwood trees leaned out over a stream. They looked at the sun-fish flashing their golden sides in the light; they sat down to smoke a pipe, the rising voice of the preacher seeming to sift in the leaves above them. The sun was shining aslant when they got up and a shadow lay upon the pool.
"He must be on the home-stretch," said the old man, nodding toward the house. "I'll go over and hitch up the horses."
"I have a similar task to perform," Lyman replied. "I'll see you again before I start home."
"All right, and I am much obleeged for your company."
The sermon was over before the horses were harnessed. Warren came running to Lyman. "You ride with the old man and let me take the girl in the spring wagon," said he.