“Because he durs’n’t,—and he wouldn’t want to, neither!”
“I calculate,” said the stranger, holding out his hand, while a smile softened the thoughtful severity of his face, “that you must be little Mirandy.”
“My name is Miranda,” she answered, ignoring the outstretched hand; “but I’m sure I don’t know who you are, coming here into my woods to kill my friends.”
“I wouldn’t hurt a hair of ’em!” he asserted, with a mingling of fervour and amusement. “But ain’t I one o’ your friends, too, Mirandy? I used to be, anyway.”
He took a step nearer, still holding out a pleading hand. Miranda drew back, and put her hands behind her. “I don’t know you,” she persisted, but now with something of an air of wilfulness rather than of hostility. Old memories had begun to stir in forgotten chambers of her brain.
“You used to be friends with Young Dave,” he said, in an eager half whisper. Miranda’s beauty and the strangeness of it were getting into his long-untroubled blood.
The girl at once put out her hand with a frank kindness. “Oh, I remember!” she said. “You’ve been a long time forgetting us, haven’t you? But never mind. Come along with me to the clearing, and see mother, and get some supper.”
Dave flushed with pleasure at the invitation.
“Thank ye kindly, Mirandy, I reckon I will,” said he; and stepping to one side he picked up his rifle. But at the sight of the weapon Miranda’s new friendliness froze up, and a resentful gleam came into her great eyes.
“Let me heft it,” she demanded abruptly, holding out an imperative hand.