"It's all right," he said, as he sat down. "I went out there and found her at the churn. I said, 'Look here, you'll drive me mad if you don't let that churn alone—I mean with the charm of the position.' And then she blushed, and I would have grabbed a kiss, but she shied to one side. She scolded me somewhat for coming so soon. She said that people would wonder what brought me out that way so often. I told her that if people had any sense they wouldn't wonder long—they would know that she had brought me there. Then I came out square-toed. I told her that I had discovered early in the action that I loved her, that I had waited long enough to be sure that it was not a passing fancy, but a genuine case of love. I told her that her cousin Jerry might believe in waiting, but that I did not. Then how she did blush and shy. I looked away, to give her a chance to get herself together again, looked out into the field where the old man was at work, and peeped through a crack at the old lady thumping the carpet loom. I didn't wait too long, though; I didn't want the girl to have time to cool off completely, so I said, looking at her. 'I want you to marry me, you understand; with my prospects I could go throughout the country and pick up most any woman who is struck on writing verses and essays, but I don't want one of them—I want you, and I want your promise to tell that fellow Jerry to go to the deuce, as far as you are concerned; and I want you to promise to wait for me a week or two and then be my wife.' Then I thought of how tedious it would be to wait so long and I corrected my statement by telling her that we needn't wait at all. How she did flounce in surprise. She said she had no idea that I cared anything for her. But I stopped her right there. 'That ain't the question,' I said, 'do you care anything for me? That's the question.' At this she hung her head and said that she didn't know, exactly, but that she would think about it. 'I don't want any thinking,' said I. 'What I want is for you to tell me right now.' Then she said something about that fool cousin. And I told her that I would shoot him on sight and look for him at that. I started to go away and she caught hold of me and said that if I promised not to shoot Jerry she would tell me the next day. 'You tell me now,' said I, 'or that fellow will be a corpse before morning.' Then she agreed that she thought she did love me a little. I told her that a little wouldn't satisfy me—I didn't want a breeze, I wanted a storm. She said I was hard to satisfy. She didn't think she could please me; she knew that she didn't amount to much in the eyes of town people. She had hoped so much to please me, and now she was grieved at her disappointment. She acknowledged that she was afraid to love me, and I told her that she needn't have any fear and that she might let herself out at once. And after a good deal of talk she did. I put her arms around my neck and made her squeeze me, and I called her a divine boa constrictor. She didn't exactly know what I meant, but it tickled her all the same. Then I went over into the field to consult the old man about the time I'd have to wait, and when I mentioned day after tomorrow he snorted. 'Young fellow,' said he, 'I like your pushing ways, but I don't want to be crowded off the face of the earth. You wait awhile. I don't want folks to think that I am anxious to git rid of the best gal that ever lived.' He got next to me when he put it that way, and I agreed to wait a week or so. Yes, sir, it's all right, with the exception that I've got to wait. But I won't wait alone; I'll go out there every once in awhile and make her wait with me."
Lyman caught hold of him and they stood near the window, laughing, but the laughter had more the sound of soft music than of two men in a merry mood. They sat down in the twilight, and their cigars glowed like the eyes of a beast, far apart.
Warren's restlessness was worn away in part, and the next day and for days succeeding he went about his work, humming what he supposed to be a tune. Two weeks dragged along and the time for the marriage was approaching. Every day or so the young fellow would drive out into the country to argue with the old man. He had rented a cottage and had furnished it and he pleaded the crime of permitting it to stand there empty of the two hearts that yearned to inhabit it. The old man acknowledged the logic of the argument, but swore that he could not have it said that he was anxious to get rid of his girl; and Warren always agreed to this, at the time of its emphatic utterance, but when he had driven back to town, and put up his horse, a spirit of rebellion would arise and back he would go the next day to renew the contest.
One night when Lyman went home he found old man Staggs in the sitting-room waiting for him. "I've got something to tell you," said the old man.
Lyman's heart jumped. "Has she returned?" he asked.
"Has who returned?"
"Why, Mrs. McElwin and her daughter?"
"Oh, I reckon not."
"Then what did you want to tell me?"
"I want to tell you that I won't drink any more."