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Updated: May 2, 2025
She meant that he was showing discourtesy by continuing to talk to her when she had just been introduced to a stranger. "You ought not to be hard on him," said Westerfelt; "he must have meant what he said." "You are jest like all the rest, I reckon," she said; "men think girls don't care for nothin' but sweet talk."
"You must answer me one question plainly," she continued, "and I want the truth. Will you, Mr. Westerfelt?" "If I can I will, Harriet." "On your honor?" "Yes, on my honor." He shrank back; how was he to reply to such a pointed question? "On your word of honor, Mr. Westerfelt!" There was nothing for him to do but answer in the affirmative, but it fired him with a desire to justify himself.
They heard his heavy tread on the veranda. "Well, come on, John, ef you are ready," he called out. "That blamed nag o' mine won't stand still a minute." When Westerfelt had been driven away, and Harriet had watched him out of sight down the road, she came back to the fire and sat down in the chair Westerfelt had used during his convalescence.
Presently he saw them emerge from the woods. They were still walking slowly and close together. Westerfelt could learn nothing from Harriet's passive face, but Bates now certainly looked depressed. A sudden thought stunned Westerfelt. Could she have told Bates of her old love for Wambush, and had he even he decided not to marry her?
I've heerd preachers say a man oughtn't to think too much about women anyway, but I reckon I backslid last night, fer I thought hard about mighty nigh ever' woman I ever seed or heerd of." "How has Mrs. Dawson been getting on since I left?" ventured Westerfelt. "Just about as bad as she knowed how, I reckon, John. After you left, she seemed to take 'er spite out on Lizzie Lithicum.
Just then, in looking across the meadow lying between his house and the main road, he saw the short form of Peter Slogan approaching. "He's coming here," thought Westerfelt. "She has asked him to bring the letters, even before breakfast. That's the little woman's way of showing her pride. What a contemptible scoundrel I am!"
He glanced aside, but she continued to stare at him fixedly. "How are you comin' on?" she asked him, slapping a little girl in a blue homespun dress who was about to fall out of the wagon. "Pretty well, thank you," replied Westerfelt, coldly. He had detected a suggestion of a sneer about the old woman's lips. "Cuts is a bad thing," she went on.
Washburn opened the office door and came out slowly. "What do you say, Mr. Westerfelt? It's yore property. I won't move a peg agin the man that I work fer ef eve'y dam Whitecap in Christendom orders it." "Careful, careful, young man; none o' your lip!" said the leader, half admiringly. "Give 'em the lot!" It was the first time Westerfelt had spoken.
I love you more right now than I ever did, and I don't know as I blame you much or harbor much resentment. I thought I would not say anything more, but I cannot help it. John, Lizzie is not the woman for you. She never will love you deep, or very long. Good-bye. Westerfelt put the letter in his pocket and turned his horse into an unfrequented road leading to the mountain and along its side.
Louder and louder grew the music and the clatter of shoes and boots. The air was filled with dust; old Mack's fiddle could hardly be heard above his shouts and the laughter of the dancers. Luke and Mrs. Bradley stood in the open door leading to the kitchen, both smiling. Mrs. Bradley seemed pleased with the ease with which Westerfelt appeared to be adapting himself to the company.
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