In spite of her self-possession, Christie’s eyes suddenly darkened, and she involuntarily drew herself up.  But Whiskey Dick, guiltily attributing the movement to his own indiscreet gesture, said, “Excuse me, miss,” recovered himself by lightly dusting her shoulder with his handkerchief, as if to remove the impression, and her smile returned.

“They wouldn’t stand for it,” said Dick, “and there’d be some shooting!  Not afore you, miss—­not afore you, in course!  But they’d adjourn to the woods some morning with them city folks, and hev it out with rifles at a hundred yards.  Or, seein’ ez they’re city folks, the boys would do the square thing with pistols at twelve paces.  They’re good boys, as I said afore; but they’re quick and tetchy—­George, being the youngest, nat’rally is the tetchiest.  You know how it is, Miss Carr; his pretty, gal-like face and little moustaches haz cost him half a dozen scrimmages already.  He’z had a fight for every hair that’s growed in his moustache since he kem here.”

“Say no more, Mr. Hall!” said Christie, rising and pressing her hands lightly on Dick’s tremulous fingers.  “If I ever had any such idea, I should abandon it now; you are quite right in this as in your other opinions.  I shall never cease to be thankful to Mr. Munroe and Mr. Kearney that they intrusted this delicate matter to your hands.”

“Well,” said the gratified and reddening visitor, “it ain’t perhaps the square thing to them or myself to say that they reckoned to have me discuss their delicate affairs for them, but—­”

“I understand,” interrupted Christie.  “They simply gave you the letter as a friend.  It was my good fortune to find you a sympathizing and liberal man of the world.”  The delighted Dick, with conscious vanity beaming from every feature of his shining face, lightly waved the compliment aside with his handkerchief, as she continued, “But I am forgetting the message.  We accept the horses.  Of course we could do without an escort; but forgive my speaking so frankly, are you engaged this afternoon?”

“Excuse me, miss, I don’t take—­” stammered Dick, scarcely believing his ears.

“Could you give us your company as an escort?” repeated Christie with a smile.

Was he awake or dreaming, or was this some trick of liquor in his often distorted fancy?  He, Whiskey Dick! the butt of his friends, the chartered oracle of the barrooms, even in whose wretched vanity there was always the haunting suspicion that he was despised and scorned; he, who had dared so much in speech, and achieved so little in fact! he, whose habitual weakness had even led him into the wildest indiscretion here; he—­now offered a reward for that indiscretion!  He, Whiskey Dick, the solicited escort of these two beautiful and peerless girls!  What would they say at the Ford?  What would his friends think?  It would be all over the Ford the next day.  His past would be vindicated, his future secured.  He grew erect at the thought.  It was almost in other voice, and with no trace of his previous exaggeration, that he said, “With pleasure.”