Part 11 (2/2)

Babe regarded her angry lover seriously.

”Hit ain't no wonder you make up your min' ag'in' him when you er done made it up ag'in' me. I know in reason they must be somep'n 'nother wrong when a great big grown man kin work hisself up to holdin' spite.

Goodness knows, I wish you wuz like you useter be when I fust know'd you.”

Peevy's sallow face flushed a little at the remembrance of those pleasant, peaceful days; but, somehow, the memory of them had the effect of intensifying his jealous mood.

”'Tain't me that's changed aroun',” he exclaimed pa.s.sionately, ”an'

'tain't the days nuther. Hit's you--you! An' that fine gent that's a hanging roun' here is the 'casion of it. Ever'whar I go, hit's the talk.

Babe, you know you er lovin' that man!”

Peevy was wide of the mark, but the accusation was so suddenly and so bluntly made that it brought the blood to Babe's face--a tremulous flush that made her fairly radiant for a moment. Undoubtedly Mr.

Chichester had played a very pleasing part in her youthful imagination, but never for an instant had he superseded the homely figure of Tuck Peevy. The knowledge that she was blus.h.i.+ng gave Babe an excuse for indignation that women are quick to take advantage of. She was so angry, indeed, that she made another mistake.

”Why, Tuck Peevy!” she cried, ”you sh.o.r.ely must be crazy. He wouldn't wipe his feet on sech as me!”

”No,” said Peevy, ”I 'lowed he wouldn't, an' I 'lowed as how you wouldn't wipe your feet on me.” He paused a moment, still smiling his peculiar smile. ”Hit's a long ways down to Peevy, ain't it?”

”You er doin' all the belittlin',” said Babe.

”Oh, no, Babe! Ever'thing's changed. Why, even them dogs barks atter me.

Ever'thing's turned wrong-sud-outerds. An' you er changed wuss'n all.”

”Well, you don't reckon I'm a-gwine ter run out'n the gate thar an'

fling myself at you, do you?” exclaimed Babe.

”No, I don't. I've thes come to-day for to git a cle'r understan'in'.”

He hesitated a moment and then went on: ”Babe, will you marry me to-morrow?” He asked the question with more eagerness than he had yet displayed.

”No, I won't!” exclaimed Babe, ”ner the nex' day nuther. The man I marry'll have a lots better opinion of me than what you er got.”

Babe was very indignant, but she paused to see what effect her words would have. Peevy rubbed his hands nervously together, but he made no response. His serenity was more puzzling than that of the mountain. He still smiled vaguely, but it was not a pleasing smile. He looked hard at Babe for a moment, and then down at his clumsy feet. His agitation was manifest, but it did not take the shape of words. In the trees overhead two jays were quarreling with a catbird, and in the upper air a bee-martin was fiercely pursuing a sparrow-hawk.

”Well,” he said, after a while, ”I reckon I better be gwine.”

”Wait till your hurry's over,” said Babe, in a gentler tone.

Peevy made no reply, but pa.s.sed out into the road and disappeared down the mountain. Babe followed him to the gate, and stood looking after him; but he turned his head neither to the right nor to the left, and in a little while she went into the house with her head bent upon her bosom. She was weeping. Grandsir Hightower, who had shuffled out on the porch to sun himself, stared at the girl with amazement.

”Why, honey!” he exclaimed, ”what upon the top side er the yeth ails you?”

”Tuck has gone home mad, an' he won't never come back no more,” she cried.

”What's the matter wi' 'im?”

”Oh, he's thes mad along er me.”

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