"What do you mean?--you speak so roughly, Ben." "I know I ain't particularly smooth-spoken; but I mean what I say, which is more 'n some folks do. Some folks thinks it good sport to be telling you fine fibs, I've no doubt." "Why do you wish to speak ill of those of whom you have no reason to, Ben? It isn't generous." "But I _have_ reason--O Alice, you don't know how much!" he set the bird-cage down, and came closer to her. "I've got suthin' to say that I can't keep back no longer. Won't you set down 'side of me on this log?" "I'd rather stand, Ben," she said, drawing back as he was about to take her hand. The quivering smile upon his lip when he asked the question changed to a look which half frightened her, at her gesture of refusal. "You didn't object to settin' by that town chap; you sot here on this very log with him, for I seen you. Cuss him, and his fine clothes, I say!" "I can not listen to you, Ben, if you use such language; I don't know what's the matter with you to-day," and she turned to go home. "I'll tell you what's the matter, Alice Wilde," and he caught her hand almost fiercely. "I can't keep still any longer and see that feller hangin' 'round. I didn't mean to speak this long time yet, but that stranger's driven me crazy. Do you 'spose I kin keep quiet and see him smirking and bowin' and blowin' on that blasted flute, around _you_; and you lookin' at him as if yer couldn't take yer eyes off? Do you s'pose I kin keep quiet and see him making a simpleton of the purtiest girl that ever growd? You needn't wince--it's true; jist as soon as he'd got away from here he'd forget all about you, or only think of you to laugh at your hoosier ways with some proud lady as fine as himself." "Oh, I am afraid it's too true!" burst forth Alice, involuntarily. "Yer may bet yer life on that, Alice Wilde! Or, at the best, he'd take yer away from yer own old father as loves the ground you tread, and try and make a lady of you, and never let you speak to your own flesh and blood agin. While I--I wouldn't do nuthin' but what yer father wanted; I'd settle down side of him, work for him, see to things, and take the care off his mind when he got old. Yer father hates them proud peacocks, Alice--he _hates_ 'em, and so do I! I know he'd ruther have me. Say yes, do now, that's a good girl." "I don't understand you, Ben," said Alice, coldly, trying to pass, for she was troubled and wanted to get away. "I'll tell you then," he said, "I want you to marry me, Alice. I've been thinking about it these two years--night and day, night and day." "Why, Ben," cried the startled child, "_I_ never thought of it--never! and I can not now. Father will be very angry with you. Let go of my hand; I want to go home."