to-morrow."
"I did not mean to imply--" began Betty, coloring.
"Of course not. But tell me about yourself. Is it not rather dull and lonesome
here for you?"
"It was last winter. But I have been
contented and happy this summer. Of
course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss the
excitement and gayety of
my uncle's house. I knew my place was with my brothers. My aunt pleaded with
me to live with her and not go to the
wilderness. I had everything I wanted
there--luxury, society, parties, balls, dances, friends--all that the heart of
a girl could desire, but I preferred to come to this little
frontiersettlement. Strange choice for a girl, was it not?"
"Unusual, yes," answered Alfred,
gravely. "And I cannot but wonder what
motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry. I came to seek my fortune. You came
to bring
sunshine into the home of your brother, and left your fortune behind
you. Well, your
motive has the element of
nobility. Mine has nothing but that
of recklessness. I would like to read the future."
"I do not think it is right to have such a wish. With the veil rolled away
could you work as hard, accomplish as much? I do not want to know the future.
Perhaps some of it will be
unhappy. I have made my choice and will cheerfully
abide by it. I rather envy your being a man. You have the world to
conquer. A
woman--what can she do? She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by
the lattice and watch and wait."
"Let us
postpone such
melancholy thoughts until some future day. I have not as
yet said anything that I intended I wish to tell you how sorry I am that I
acted in such a rude way the night your brother came home. I do not know what
made me do so, but I know I have regretted it ever since. Will you
forgive me
and may we not be friends?"
"I--I do not know," said Betty, surprised and
vaguely troubled by the earnest
light in his eyes.
"But why? Surely you will make some little
allowance for a naturally quick
temper, and you know you did not--that you were--"
"Yes, I remember I was hasty and
unkind. But I made
amends, or at least, I
tried to do so."
"Try to
overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you
forgive me.
Consider how much you can avoid by being generous."
"Very well, then, I will
forgive you," said Betty, who had arrived at the
conclusion that this young man was one of determination.
"Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained ankle? It
must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully."
"I am compelled to believe what the girls say--that you are inclined to the
language of
compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you. It hurts a little
now and then."
"Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," said Alfred,
watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but he was not sure of
his ground. "I had been all day in the woods with nothing but my
thoughts--mostly
unhappy ones--for company. When I met you I pretended to be
surprised. As a matter of fact I was not, for I had followed your dog. He took
a
liking to me and I was
extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your
face a moment before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps
you turned with a relieved and
joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your glad
expression changed, and if I had been a
hostile Wyandot you could not have
looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained face I never saw."
"Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said Betty with
dignity.
"I desire that you forget it."
"I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of
finding you
and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we should never have been
friends but for that accident."
"There is Isaac. He is looking for me," answered Betty, rising.
"Wait a moment longer--please. He will find you," said Alfred, detaining her.
"Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May I come over to see you
to-morrow?"
He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell before he
had completed his question.
"There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go."
"But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if I may not
see you. Please say yes."
"You may come," answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his
persistence. "I should think you would know that such
permission invariably
goes with a young woman's
forgiveness."
"Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in
finding you," said Isaac,
coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with
excitement. "Alfred, what do
you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like this? I want to dance with
you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I have not danced anything but Indian
dances for ages. Sorry to take her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn't want to