The Mettle of the Pasture Part 17

"Miss Anna is coming. She is coming as a man; and she is going to bring a lady."

"How is she going to dress as a man?" said Marguerite, as she danced away from him under her parasol.

She strolled slowly on until she reached the street of justice and the jail; turning into this, she pa.s.sed up the side opposite the law offices. Her parasol rested far back on one shoulder; to any lateral observer there could have been no mistake regarding the face in front of it. She pa.s.sed through a group of firemen sitting in their s.h.i.+rtsleeves in front of the engine-house, disappeared around the corner, and went to a confectioner's. Presently she reentered the street, and this time walked along the side where the law offices were grouped. She disappeared around the corner and entered a dry-goods store. A few moments later she reentered the street for the third and last time. Just as she pa.s.sed a certain law office, she dropped her packages. No one came out to pick them up. Marguerite did this herself--very slowly. Still no one appeared. She gave three sharp little raps on the woodwork of the door.

From the rear office a red head was thrust suddenly out like a surprised woodp.e.c.k.e.r's. Barbee hurried to the entrance and looked up the street. He saw a good many people. He looked down the street and noticed a parasol moving away.

"I supposed you were in the courthouse," she said, glancing at him with surprise. "Haven't you any cases?"

"One," he answered, "a case of life and death."

"You need not walk against me, Barbee; I am not a vine to need propping. And you need not walk with me. I am quite used to walking alone: my nurse taught me years ago."

"But now you have to learn _not_ to walk alone, Marguerite."

"It will be very difficult."

"It will be easy when the right man steps forward: am I the right man?"

"I am going to the library. Good morning."

"So am I going to the library."

"Aren't all your authorities in your office?"

"All except one."

They turned into the quiet shady street: they were not the first to do this.

When they reached the steps, Marguerite sank down.

"Why do I get so tired when I walk with you, Barbee? You exhaust me _very_ rapidly."

He sat down not very near her, but soon edged a little closer.

Marguerite leaned over and looked intently at his big, thin ear.

"What a lovely red your ear is, seen against a clear sky. It would make a beautiful lamp-shade."

"You may have both of them--and all the fixtures--solid bra.s.s--an antique some day."

He edged a little closer.

Marguerite coughed and pointed across the street: "Aren't those trees beautiful?"

"Oh, don't talk to me about trees! What do I care about _wood_!

You're the tree that I want to dig up, and take home, and plant, and live under, and be buried by."

"That's a great deal--all in one sentence."

"Are you never going to love me a little, Marguerite?"

"How can I tell?"

"Don't torture me."

"What am I doing?"

"You are not doing anything, that's the trouble. The other night I was sure you loved me."

"I didn't say so."

"But you looked it."

"Then I looked all wrong: I shall change my looks."

"Will you name the day?"

"What day?"

"_The_ day."

"I'll name them all: Monday, Tuesday--"

"Ah, Lord--"

"Barbee, I'm going to sing you a love song--an old, old, old love song. Did you ever hear one?"

"I have been hearing mine for some time."

"This goes back to grandmother's time. But it's the man's song: you ought to be singing it to me."

"I shall continue to sing my own."

Marguerite began to sing close to Barbee's ear:

"I'll give to you a paper of pins, If that's the way that love begins, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me."

"Pins!" said Barbee; "why, that old-time minstrel must have been singing when pins were just invented. You can have--"

Marguerite quieted him with a finger on his elbow:

"I'll give to you a dress of red, Bound all around with golden thread, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me."

"How about a dress not simply bound with golden thread but made of it, made of nothing else! and then hung all over with golden ornaments and the heaviest golden utensils?"

Marguerite sang on:

"I'll give to you a coach and six, Every horse as black as pitch, If you will marry me, me, me, If you will marry me."