The Bannetts at Hoosic Falls offered a large specimen to Molly—a dinner (perhaps I should say a banquet) of twenty-four. And Sam Bannett of course took her to drive more than once.
“I want to see the Hoosic Bridge,” she would say. And when they reached that well-remembered point, “How lovely it is!” she exclaimed. And as she gazed at the view up and down the valley, she would grow pensive. “How natural the church looks,” she continued. And then, having crossed both bridges, “Oh, there's the dear old lodge gate!” Or again, while they drove up the valley of the little Hoosic: “I had forgotten it was so nice and lonely. But after all, no woods are so interesting as those where you might possibly see a bear or an elk.” And upon another occasion, after a cry of enthusiasm at the view from the top of Mount Anthony, “It's lovely, lovely, lovely,” she said, with diminishing cadence, ending in pensiveness once more. “Do you see that little bit just there? No, not where the trees are—that bare spot that looks brown and warm in the sun. With a little sagebrush, that spot would look something like a place I know on Bear Creek. Only of course you don't get the clear air here.”
“I don't forget you,” said Sam. “Do you remember me? Or is it out of sight out of mind?”
And with this beginning he renewed his suit. She told him that she forgot no one; that she should return always, lest they might forget her.
“Return always!” he exclaimed. “You talk as if your anchor was dragging.”
Was it? At all events, Sam failed in his suit.
Over in the house at Dunbarton, the old lady held Molly's hand and looked a long while at her. “You have changed very much,” she said finally.
“I am a year older,” said the girl.
“Pshaw, my dear!” said the great-aunt. “Who is he?”
“Nobody!” cried Molly, with indignation.