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“Finally I says:

“‘I hain’t got any buggy, Nance–the old man wouldn’t let me have one last Sunday–I mean eleven years ago–that’s what threw me off the track–but I’ve got a forty-horse-power car out here. Suppose you put on your best apron and take a ride with me.’

“She made some words as women will, but she got ready, and she did look handsomer than ever as she came out. She was excited, I could see that, but she was all there! No jugglin’ or fussin’.

“‘Climb in the front seat, dad,’ I says. ‘It’s me and Nance to the private box. Turn on the juice,’ I says to the driver.

“Well, sir, we burned up all the grease in the box lookin’ up the old neighbors and the places we used to visit with horse and buggy–and every time I spoke to the old man I called him ‘Dad’–and finally we fetched up at the biggest hotel in the town and had dinner together.

“Then I says: ‘Dad, you better lay down and snooze. Nance and me are goin’ out for a walk.’

“The town had swelled up some, but one or two of the old stores was there, and as we walked past the windows I says: ‘Remember the time we stood here and wished we could buy things?’

“She kind o’ laughed. ‘I don’t believe I do.’

“‘Yes, you do,’ I says. ‘Well, we can look now to some account, for I’ve got nineteen thousand dollars in the bank and a payin’ lease on a mine.'”

Up to this minute he had been fairly free to express his real feelings–hypnotized by my absorbed gaze–but now, like most Anglo-Saxons, he began to shy. He began to tell of a fourteen-dollar suit of clothes (bought at this store) which turned green in the hot sun.

“Oh, come now!” I insisted, “I want to know about Nancy. All this interests me deeply. Did she agree to come back with you?”

He looked a little bit embarrassed. “I asked her to–right there in front of that window. I said, ‘I want you to let me buy you that white dress.’

“‘Judas priest! I can’t let you do that,’ she says.

“‘Why not?’ I said. ‘We’re goin’ to be married, anyhow.’

“‘Is that so?’ she asked. ‘I hadn’t heard of it.’

“Oh, she was no babe, I tell you. We went back to the hotel and woke up the old man, and I ordered up the best machine in the shop–a big seven-seated, shiny one, half as long as a Pullman parlor-car, with a top and brass housin’s and extra tires strapped on, and a place for a trunk–an outfit that made me look like a street-railway magnate. It set me back a whole lot, but I wanted to stagger dad–and I did. As we rolled up to the door he came out with eyes you could hang your hat on.

“‘What’s all this?’ he asked.

“I hopped out.

“‘Miss McRae,’ I says, ‘this is my father. Dad, this is Mister McRae. I think you’ve met before.'”

He chuckled again, that silent interior laugh, and I was certainly grinning in sympathy as he went on.

“‘Just help me with this trunk,’ I says. ‘The horses bein’ tired, I just thought I’d have a dray to bring up my duds.’

“Well, sir, I had him flat down. He couldn’t raise a grunt. He stood like a post while I laid off my trunk; but mother and sis came out and were both very nice to Nance. Mother asked her to get out, and she did, and I took ’em all for a ride later–all but dad. Couldn’t get him inside the machine. Nance stayed for supper, and just as we were goin’ in dad said to me:

“‘How much does that red machine cost you an hour?’

“‘About two dollars.’

“‘I reckon you better send it back to the shop,’ he says. ‘You can take Nance home in my buggy.’

“It was his surrender; but I didn’t turn a hair.

“‘I guess you’re right,’ I says. ‘It is a little expensive to spark in–and a little too public, too.'”

The whistle of the engine announcing the station helped him out.

“Here’s Victor, and my mine is up there on the north-west side. You can just see the chimney. I’ve got another year on it, and I’m goin’ to raise dirt to beat hell durin’ all the time there is left, and then I’m goin’ to Denver.”

“And Nance?”

“Oh, she’s comin’ out next week,” he said, as he rose to take down his valise. “I’ve bought a place at the Springs.”

“Good luck to you both,” said I, as he swung from the train.