“Oh, I'm about as common,” was the drawling answer. “You may notice that I limp a little in my left leg. Ever since I had white-swellin' I've had trouble with that self-same leg. I wish you folks would jest stop an' take a peep at it. It looks to me like the blood's quit circulatin' in it. It went to sleep while you was a-talkin' this mornin'—now, I'll swear I didn't mean that as a reflection.” He laughed dryly as he paused at a fallen tree and put his foot upon it and started to roll up the leg of his trousers, but his wife drew him on impatiently.
“I wonder what you'll do next!” she said, reprovingly. “This is no time and place for that. What would the Duncans think if they were to drive by while you were doing the like of that on a public road? Come on with me, and let's leave the young folks to themselves.”
Grumblingly Porter obeyed. His wife walked briskly and made him keep pace with her, and they were soon several yards ahead of the young couple. Hillhouse was silent for several minutes, and his smooth-shaven face was quite serious in expression.
“I'm afraid I'm going to bore you on that same old line, Miss Cynthia,” he said, presently. “Really, I can't well help it. This morning I fancied you listened attentively to what I was saying.”
“Oh, yes, I always do that,” the girl returned, with an almost perceptible shudder of her shoulders.
“It helped me wonderfully, Miss Cynthia, and once a hope actually flashed through me so strong that I lost my place. You may have seen me turning the pages of the Bible. I was trying to think where I'd left off. The hope was this: that some day if I keep on begging you, and showing my deep respect and regard, you will not turn me away. Just for one minute this morning it seemed to me that you had actually consented, and—and the thought was too much for me.”
“Oh, don't say any more about it, Mr. Hillhouse,” Cynthia pleaded, giving him a full look from her wonderful brown eyes. “I have already said as much as I can on that subject.”
“But I've known many of the happiest marriages to finally result from nothing but the sheer persistence of the man concerned,” the preacher went on, ardently, “and when I think of that I live, Miss Cynthia—I live! And when I think of the chance of losing you it nearly drives me crazy. I can't help feeling that way. You are simply all I care for on earth. Do you remember when I first met you? It was at Hattie Mayfield's party just after I got this appointment; we sat on the porch alone and talked. I reckon it was merely your respect for my calling that made you so attentive, but I went home that night out of my head with admiration. Then I saw that Frank Miller was going with you everywhere, and that people thought you were engaged, and, as I did not admire his moral character, I was very miserable in secret. Then I saw that he stopped, and I got it from a reliable source that you had turned him down because you didn't want to marry such a man, and my hopes and admiration climbed still higher. You had proved that you were the kind of woman for a preacher's wife—the kind of woman I've always dreamed of having as my companion in life.”
“I didn't love him, that was all,” Cynthia said, quietly. “It would not have been fair to him or myself to have received his constant attentions.”
“But now I am down in the dregs again, Miss Cynthia.” Hillhouse gave a sigh. It was almost a groan.