"It's gettin' mad ye are with yer old Matt," he insinuated, "who has
yer own good at heart, an' because iv it makes a fool iv himself."
"No, I'm not."
"But ye are."
"There!" leaning swiftly to him and kissing him. "How could I remember
the Dyea days and be angry?"
"Ah, Frona darlin', well may ye say it. I'm the dust iv the dirt under
yer feet, an' ye may walk on me--anything save get mad. I cud die for
ye, swing for ye, to make ye happy. I cud kill the man that gave ye
sorrow, were it but a thimbleful, an' go plump into hell with a smile
on me face an' joy in me heart."
They had halted before her door, and she pressed his arm gratefully.
"I am not angry, Matt. But with the exception of my father you are the
only person I would have permitted to talk to me about this--this
affair in the way you have. And though I like you, Matt, love you
better than ever, I shall nevertheless be very angry if you mention it
again. You have no right. It is something that concerns me alone.
And it is wrong of you--"
"To prevint ye walkin' blind into danger?"
"If you wish to put it that way, yes."
He growled deep down in his throat.
"What is it you are saying?" she asked.
"That ye may shut me mouth, but that ye can't bind me arm."
"But you mustn't, Matt, dear, you mustn't."
Again he answered with a subterranean murmur.
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