Molly sighed deeply. It even seemed to involve an effort to raise her eyes from the fascinating spectacle set out upon the well-scrubbed table.
“I can hardly believe, Lightning.”
The girl’s words came scarcely above a whisper, and the old man watched her closely. In a moment his mind had leapt back to the meaning of it all. The smiling enjoyment of Molly’s delight passed out of his eyes, and they hardened again to their natural glitter.
He remained without reply, and the girl roused herself. Quickly and deftly she replaced the garments and enfolded them in their wrappings. And she talked the while.
“Lightning,” she cried, and the excitement of it all was still thrilling in her tones. “You got to help me. This is my day. My day,” she repeated almost tenderly. Then she went on quickly and almost sharply. “You’re mad about Andy. You’re mad because he’s my beau. Remember this, and get it good. I love Andy. I just love Andy with my whole heart. Whether you like him, or whether you don’t one day he’s going to be boss around this farm, just the same as he’s boss right in—here.” She pressed her hands over her gently swelling bosom. “Since father died I guess you’ve been real good to me. You been so good to me I just can’t tell you about it. Well”—she drew a deep breath—“you aren’t goin’ to quit being good to me because of Andy?” She shook her head. “You surely aren’t. You see, folks can’t just help these things. I mean—I mean I—I love Andy. I can’t help it. I wouldn’t if I could. Won’t you help me still? Won’t you quit hating him?”
The suddenness, the earnestness of Molly’s appeal almost caught the old cattleman off his guard. And he stood staring down at the refolded bundle she was about to remove to her room while he prepared his reply. Then, very deliberately, he shook his head, and gazed at her out of his framing of loose whisker and grey hair.
“Andy’s your beau all right, Molly, gal,” he said, in his harsh way. “The thing I feel fer that boy don’t matter a’ curse. You can’t help the way you feel about him. Wal, I don’t guess I’m no diff’rent. Leave it that way. I ain’t no sort of archangel, or any pie-faced psalm-smiter. I got one notion in life. That’s you. I’m goin’ to see you fixed right if hell itself throws a fit and busts up the throne o’ glory. If Andy’s the boy that’s goin’ to fix you right I’m right behind him waggin’ a banner, with a halo around my thatch, an’ a pair o’ dandy wings dustin’ the sand out o’ my eyes, an’ talkin’ pie like a Methody Meetin’. But if he ain’t? If that boy sets you worryin’, if that boy hands you a haf-hour o’ grievin’, why, I’m after him like a bitch wolf chasin’ feed in winter. That goes, Molly, gal. Don’t you worry a thing. Sure, this is your day, gal. It’s yours, all of it. An’ I’m ready to weep around that boy’s neck same as if I’d no more sense than a blind sheep at lambin’ time.”
It was long past the midday meal that the sun of Molly’s day reached its meridian. The afternoon was well advanced. Lightning had betaken himself to his labours, and the manner of his going had been sufficiently characteristic.
“Guess I’ll quit you now, Molly, gal,” he had said. “Ther’s things in life as I see ’em it ain’t no good trying to boost the way you’d fancy ’em. With your notion fixed that way ther’ ain’t no sort of sense ’cep’ to leave ’em alone till they hurt you. Your Andy, boy’ll get along, an’ when he comes I don’t guess you’ll be yearnin’ to hev the remains o’ my life joinin’ in your party. So I’ll beat it right now to my ploughing. Hev a time, kid. Hev a real, swell time with them dandy fixin’s, an’ when you need me, why, I’ll just get around.”