But he was already leaning towards her with his dark earnest eyes fixed upon her in a way she could no longer mistake. “At the risk of slipping up again, Miss Dows,” he said gently, dropping into her dialect with utterly unconscious flattery, “I am going to ask you to teach me everything YOU wish, to be all that YOU demand--which would be far better. You have said we were good friends; I want you to let me hope to be more. I want you to overlook my deficiencies and the differences of my race and let me meet you on the only level where I can claim to be the equal of your own people--that of loving you. Give me only the same chance you gave the other poor fellow who sleeps yonder--the same chance you gave the luckier man who carried the wreath for you to put upon his grave.”

She had listened with delicately knitted brows, the faintest touch of color, and a half-laughing, half-superior disapprobation. When he had finished, she uttered a plaintive little sigh. “Yo' oughtn't to have said that, co'nnle, but yo' and me are too good friends to let even THAT stand between us. And to prove it to yo' I'm going to forget it right away--and so are yo'.”

Sally Dows and Other Stories — Part 33

“But I cannot,” he said quickly; “if I could I should be unworthy of even your friendship. If you must reject it, do not make me feel the shame of thinking you believe me capable of wanton trifling. I know that this avowal is abrupt to you, but it is not to me. You have known me only for three months, but these three months have been to me the realization of three years' dreaming!” As she remained looking at him with bright, curious eyes, but still shaking her fair head distressedly, he moved nearer and caught her hand in the little pale lilac thread glove that was, nevertheless, too wide for her small fingers, and said appealingly: “But why should YOU forget it? Why must it be a forbidden topic? What is the barrier? Are you no longer free? Speak, Miss Dows--give me some hope. Miss Dows!--Sally!”

Sally Dows and Other Stories — Part 33

She had drawn herself away, distressed, protesting, her fair head turned aside, until with a slight twist and narrowing of her hand she succeeded in slipping it from the glove which she left a prisoner in his eager clasp. “There! Yo' can keep the glove, co'nnle,” she said, breathing quickly. “Sit down! This is not the place nor the weather for husking frolics! Well!--yo' want to know WHY yo' mustn't speak to me in that way. Be still, and I'll tell yo'.”

Sally Dows and Other Stories — Part 33