It would
only make me love you more--it _does_ make me love you more."
Her face clouded over with perplexity. Somebody was coining down the
sidewalk, and she led him into the parlor.
"Why, Mr. Westerfelt," she began again, "I--I don't know what to make
of you. It was one day when you were sick here, just after you asked
me to burn a letter you had got. I remember it distinctly."
He started. "I was not alluding to that," he said.
"Then what were you speaking of?"
"Of Wambush, and all the rest. Oh, Harriet, I've tried so hard to
forget him and overcome my--"
"What about him? Answer me; what about him?"
"The letter I asked you to burn was not for me. It was from old
Wambush to Toot. In it he mentioned you, and how you helped Toot hide
that whiskey, and how you confessed your love and cried in the old
man's arms."
"Mr. Westerfelt, are you _crazy_? Are you a raving maniac? I never
did anything like that. Toot Wambush was writing about Hettie
Fergusson. She is his sweetheart; she helped him hide the barrel of
whiskey in the kitchen. Oh, Mr.
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