It seemed to him in the moment that she had opened a way for him. “Yes-sum. That’s why I kem hyar,—straight, straight ez I hearn it. I felt so happy,—an’ yit I war ’feard ’twarn’t true. ’Twar true, Marcelly? ’Twar true, though?” She looked up at him, startled and amazed at his vehemence; her eyes dilated, wonder in every eloquent trait. “What’s kem over ye, Clem Sanders? Air _what_ true?” she asked bluntly. “Marcelly,” he replied, his voice trembling, “don’t git mad at me, no matter what happens; ye know I ain’t school-larned like yer dad.” This was merely a fortuitous stroke of policy, for his simple nature was not capable of attempting genuine strategy. “I dunno ef ye hev furgot, but Andy Longwood said ez ye ’lowed ter him ye war goin’ ter marry me; an’ the Lord knows I hev lived an’ breathed jes’ in that hope, ’pears ter me, ever sence I war alive’ but”—He stopped precipitately. Her face was scarlet; her eyes flashed with a fire that seemed to scorch him. “Did ye b’lieve _that_?” she cried contemptuously. “Did ye b’lieve I’d ’low sech ez that?—an’ I never did, ’ceptin’ ter nod my head when dad said ez much, kase the doctor ’lowed we mustn’t argufy an’ cross dad, an’ git him sot catawampus in his temper. Did ye ’low I’d say in earnest I’d marry a man ez never axed me?” For once in his life Clem spoke to her with eager and decisive opposition. But even then it was prefaced with his suave “Yes-sum.” “But, shucks, Marcelly! Talk about axin’! Ye know I’d hev axed enny day in the year ez I warn’t afeard ter. Ye air obleeged ter know ’twar jes’ kase I war afeard ye’d say no. I kep’ a-puttin’ it off, ’lowin’ mebbe suthin’ mought happen ter make ye think mo’ of me.” She was not appeased. “Waal,” she observed calmly, “I warn’t in earnest. I never thunk about marryin’ ye. An’ I won’t.” “Yes-sum,” said Clem, crestfallen. “But ye’ll never git nobody, Marcelly, ez would try harder ter do jes’ like ye wanted him ter. I wouldn’t cross yer notions no way ye could fix ’em. These other boys in the Cove, ef ye air thinkin’ ’bout choosin’ one out’n Brumsaidge”— “I don’t _choose_ folks. I ’lowed I hed tole ye that,” she responded, holding her head very high on her fine and delicate neck, and looking at him with her definite straight eyebrows frowningly meeting above her dark eyes, that seemed to him unnaturally clear and brilliant. “Yes-sum. But howsomdever these other boys air powerful set in thar way, an’ some o’ thar ways ain’t pritty ones.” This as closely approached slander as the good Clem Sanders could compass. “They air toler’ble good boys,” he felt constrained to qualify, “but they wouldn’t be good fur ye ter marry. I tell ye, now, Marcelly, ye mought find a smarter man mos’ ennywhar,—though not a better blacksmith,—but ye’ll never find nobody ez loves ye like I do, an’ would take the pains ter please ye like I would, ef ye war ter marry me.” “I hev got no sort’n notion o’ doin’ it,—never hed,” she declared bluntly.