eager attention, he added, overcome by the foretaste of approaching
triumph: "Miss Loo, I love you; you've seen that, for you notice
everythin'. I know I'm not young, but I can be kinder and more faithful
than any young man, and," here he slipped his arm round her waist, "I
guess all women want to be loved, don't they? Will you let me love you,
Loo, as my wife?"

The girl shrank away from him nervously. Perhaps the fact of being in a
buggy recalled her rides with George; or the caress brought home to her
the difference between the two men. However that may be, when she
answered, it was with full self-possession:

"I guess what you say's about right, and I like you. But I don't want to
marry--anyway not yet. Of course I'd like to help you, and I'd like to
live in New York; but--I can't make up my mind all at once. You must
wait. If you really care for me, that can't be hard."

"Yes, it's hard," Barkman replied, "very hard to feel uncertain of
winning the only woman I can ever love. But I don't want to press you,"
he added, after a pause, "I rely on you; you know best, and I'll do just
what you wish."

"Well, then," she resumed, mollified by his humility, "you'll go back to
Wichita this evenin', as you said you would, and when you return, the
day after to-morrow, I'll tell you Yes or No. Will that do?" and she
smiled up in his face.

"Yes, that's more than I had a right to expect," he acknowledged. "Hope
from you is better than certainty from any other woman." In this mood
they reached the homestead. Loo alighted at the gate; she wouldn't allow