"Why shouldn't ye hev things if ye want 'em?"

"I don't want them," she protested. "I want nothing but you."

For a moment there was a dead silence. He kept his eyes fixed on the fire. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. But at last he spoke:

"Don't ye, Louisianny?" he said.

"No," she answered. "Nothing."

And she drew his hand under her cheek and kissed it.

He took it very quietly.

"Ye've got a kind heart, Louisianny," he said. "Young folks gin'rally has, I think. It's sorter nat'ral, but Lord! thar's other things besides us old folks, an' it's nat'ral as ye'd want 'em. Thar's things as kin be altered, an' thar's things as cayn't. Let's alter them as kin. If ye'd like a cupoly put on the house, or, say a coat of yaller-buff paint—Sawyer's new house is yaller buff, an' it's mighty showy; or a organ or a pianny, or more dressin', ye shall have 'em. Them's things as it aint too late to set right, an' ye shall hev 'em."

But she only cried the more in a soft, hushed way.

"Oh, don't be so good to me," she said. "Don't be so good and kind."

He went on as quietly as before.

"If—fur instants—it was me as was to be altered, Louisianny, I'm afeared—I'm afeared we couldn't do it. I'm afeared as I've been let run too long—jest to put it that way. We mought hev done it if we'd hev begun airlier—say forty or fifty year back—but I'm afeared we couldn't do it now. Not as I wouldn't be willin'—I wouldn't hev a thing agin it, an' I'd try my best—but it's late. Thar's whar it is. If it was me as hed to be altered—made more moderner, an' to know more, an' to hev more style—I'm afeared thar'd be a heap o' trouble. Style didn't never seem to come nat'ral to me, somehow. I'm one o' them things as cayn't be altered. Let's alter them as kin."

"I don't want you altered," she protested. "Oh! why should I, when you are such a good father—such a dear father!"

And there was a little silence again, and at the end of it he said, in a gentle, forbearing voice, just as he had said before:

"Don't ye, Louisianny?"

They sat silent again for some time afterward—indeed, but little more was said until they separated for the night. Then, when she kissed him and clung for a moment round his neck, he suddenly roused himself from his prolonged reverie.

"Lord!" he said, quite cheerfully, "it caynt last long, at the longest, arter all—an' you're young yet, you're young."

"What can't last long?" she asked, timidly.

He looked into her eyes and smiled.

"Nothin'," he answered, "nothin' caynt. Nothin' don't—an' you're young."

And he was so far moved by his secret thought that he smoothed her hair from her forehead the wrong way again with a light touch, before he let her go.

 

 

 

CHAPTER X.

THE GREAT WORLD.

The next morning he went to the Springs.

"I'll go an' settle up and bring ye your trunk an' things," he said. "Mebbe I mayn't git back till to-morrer, so don't ye be oneasy. Ef I feel tired when I git thar, I'll stay overnight."

She did not think it likely he would stay. She had never known him to remain away from home during a night unless he had been compelled to do so by business. He had always been too childishly fond of his home to be happy away from it. He liked the routine he had been used to through forty years, the rising at daylight, the regular common duties he assumed as his share, his own seat on the hearth or porch and at table.

"Folks may be clever enough," he used to say. "They air clever, as a rule—but it don't come nat'ral to be away. Thar aint nothin' like home an' home ways."

But he did not return that night, or even the next morning. It was dusk the next evening before Louisiana heard the buggy wheels on the road.

She had been sitting on the porch and rose to greet him when he drove up and descended from his conveyence rather stiffly.

"Ye wasn't oneasy, was ye?" he asked.

"No," she answered; "only it seemed strange to know you were away."

"I haint done it but three times since me an' Ianthy was married," he said. "Two o' them times was Conference to Barnsville, an' one was when Marcelly died."

When he mounted the porch steps he looked up at her with a smile on his weather-beaten face.

"Was ye lonesome?" he asked. "I bet ye was."

"A little," she replied.