“Ye did! Ye did! I useter know it ’way over yander ter Chilhowee, kase I’d feel so happy, so happy, whilst a plowin’, or choppin’ wood, or a-pullin’ fodder. I wouldn’t hev swapped places with a n’angel. Ye used ter think ’bout _me_ then, an’ now ye think ’bout somebody else.” She said nothing, and he leaned back against the post of the porch, looking up at the far crystalline sky, deeply blue; but one scant cloud was visible, of a dazzling opaque whiteness in its central mass, and with tenuous trailing cirrus effects upon its verges. It pained his eyes, and he pulled his hat-brim over his brow as he lowered his head. “I tell you what,—I wisht I war a Injun.” He glanced up at her, in the hope that she would ask why. But her wheel still whirled, her little foot, with its low-cut shoe, visible on the treadle. Her bright, downcast eyes were fixed upon the thread that her deft fingers drew out in endless attenuations. “I wisht I war a Injun,” he reiterated, “so ez I wouldn’t know ’twar murder an’ a scandalous sin ter kem down hyar from Chilhowee in the night-time an’ scalp every hearty single man in the Settlemint,—scalp ’em an’ stab ’em, I would. I wisht I didn’t know no better ’n that. I wisht I war a Injun.” Her thread broke. The wheel ceased to revolve. She looked at him with reprehensive eyes. “Andy Longwood,” she remonstrated, “ye air gittin’ ter be gredgin’ an’ mean,—an’ ye ain’t tellin’ the truth, nuther. Ye don’t wish no sech foolishness, an’ ye wouldn’t scalp nobody. Ye air jes’ gredgin’ an’ mean.” “I gredge you-uns ter enny o’ ’em,” he replied. Then, after a moment, “Look-a-hyar, Marcelly Strobe,”—he adopted in turn the solemnity of the full name in addressing her,—“how often hev ye promised ter marry me?” “Not lately,” she declared. “No, not lately, an’ that’s jes’ what I’m a-talkin’ ’bout. Lord! Lord! I kin ’member jes’ ez well how ye useter look when ye fust tuk ter toddlin’ round, an’ folks useter tell me then ez how ye an’ me would marry some day; an’ I b’lieved ’em, pore fool! An’ so did you-uns, though. Ye useter promise ez soon ez ye could talk ez ye would marry me. Ye useter promise even arter ye war ez old ez Is’bel, an’ arterward, too.” “Waal, Is’bel ain’t so very old,” observed her sister calmly. “An’ all of a suddint,” continued the young lover, “ye got tongue-tied, an’ wouldn’t say it yerse’f, an’ wouldn’t let nobody say it ter you-uns.” “Waal, Andy, I hev fund out better sence then. Promisin’ ter marry air a mighty serious matter.”