“Little wonder she wears that Dunkard gown,” said I with the faintest sneer.

It angered Tim.

“That’s not fair,” he cried.  “She’s not that kind.  Luther Warden is all she has of kin, and if it makes him any happier to see her togged out in that gawky Dunkard gown-----”

“Gawky?” said I.  “Why, man, on a woman like that a plain dress is simply quaint.  She looks like an old Dutch picture.  You must not let her change it.”

The insinuation of his authority made Tim pound the table with his pipe.  He was striving to be angry, but I knew what that furious flush of his face meant.  He tried to conceal it by smoking again, but ended in a laugh.

“Oh, nonsense!” he said.  Then he laughed again.

“Tell me,” I went on, following up my advantage, “when is she coming here, or when are you going to move up there?”

My brother recovered his composure.

“It’s all silly, Mark.  There is no chance of a girl like that settling down here with a clumsy fellow like me—­a fellow who doesn’t know anything, who’s never been anywhere, who’s never seen anything.  Why, she’s travelled; she’s from Kansas; she’s lived in big cities.  This is nothing but a lark for her.  She’ll go away some day, and she’ll leave us here, grubbing away on our bit of a farm and spending our savings on powder and shot—­until we get to the happy hunting grounds.”

Tim laughed mournfully.  “I’ve been just a little foolish,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help it, Mark.  It doesn’t amount to anything; it never did and never will, and now that you’re here and the rabbit season will soon be in, we’ll have other things to think of.  But you must remember I’m not the only man in the world who’s been a bit of a fool in his time.”

“No,” said I.  “May I be spared myself, but see here, Tim, how does it feel?”

“How does what feel?” snapped Tim.

“To be in love the way you are,” I answered.

“Oh!” he exclaimed.

He had been taken back, and hesitated between anger and amusement.  When Tim hesitates he loses his temper as a sensible man should lose it—­he buries it, and his indomitable good humor wins.

“Tip Pulsifer says it’s like religion,” he answered.  “At first it makes you feel all low-down like, and miserable, and you don’t care.  Then you either get over it entirely or become so used to it you don’t feel it at all.”

“May I be spared!” I cried, “and may you get over it.”

But the youngster refused to commit himself.  He just smiled and smoked, and it seemed as though in his suffering he was half happy.  I smoked, too.  We smoked together.  The silence startled Captain, for the clock struck, and yawning, he arose, trotted to my side, and with one leap he brought his ponderous paws into my lap.

You can trust your dog.  He never fails you.

“Well, old chap,” I said, as I scratched his nose ever so gently, “you at least have no one to think of but me and Tim there, eh?”