As the slowly lumbering vehicle passed the
new church on the outskirts of the town, the congregation were sallying
forth. It was too late to jump down and run away, and Cass dared not
ask his new-found friend to whip up his cattle. Conscious of his
unshorn beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the
road. A voice that thrilled him called his name. It was Miss Porter, a
resplendent vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers--yet actually
running, with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon.
As the astonished teamster drew up before this elegant apparition, she
panted:
"Why did you make me run so far, and why didn't you look up?"
Cass, trying to hide the patches on his knees beneath a newspaper,
stammered that he had not seen her.
"And you did not hold down your head purposely?"
"No," said Cass.
"Why have you not been to Red Chief? Why didn't you answer my message
about the ring?" she asked, swiftly.
"You sent nothing but the ring," said Cass, coloring, as he glanced at
the teamster.
"Why, _that_ was a message, you born idiot.
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