"She wouldn't marry him a minute sooner because he went to Congress," said
Minnie thoughtfully.
"You're giving up," he exclaimed. "You know I'm right."
"Wait and see. It might--No, you're wrong as wrong can be! I wish you
weren't. Don't you see? You're blind. She couldn't do all these things
for him if she loved him. That's the very proof itself. I suppose you--
well, you can't understand."
"I'll tell you one thing," he returned. "If she doesn't, the rest of it
won't amount to a rip with John Harkless."
"Yes, it will. Nobody could help liking to find himself as big a man as
he'll be when he comes back here. Besides, don't you see, it's her way of
making it up to him for not liking him as much as he wants. You give up,
don't you?"
"No," he cried, with feeble violence, "I don't. She'll find out some
things about herself when she sees him again."
Minnie shook her head.
There was a sound of wheels; the buckboard drew up at the gate, and Helen,
returning from her evening's labor, jumped out lightly, and ran around to
pat the horses' heads. "Thank you so much, Mr. Willetts," she said to the
driver. "I know you will handle the two delegates you are to look after as
well as you do the judge's team; and you ought to, you know, because the
delegates are men. You dears!" She stroked the sleek necks of the colts
and handed them bunches of grass.
Briscoe came out, and let the friendly animals nose his shoulder as he
looked gravely down on the piquant face beside him in the dusk. "Young
lady," he said, "go East. Wait till we get on to Washington, and sit in
the gallery, and see John Harkless rise up in his place, and hear the
Speaker say: 'The Gentleman from Indiana!' I know the chills would go up
and down my spine, and I guess you'd feel pretty well paid for your day's
work. I guess we all would."
"Aren't you tired, Helen?" asked Minnie, coming to her in the darkness and
clasping her waist.
"Tired? No; I'm happy. Did you ever see the stars so bright?"