She had accused him, in that roundabout way which seems to be a woman's favorite method of reaching a real grievance, of being fickle and neglectful and inconsiderate and a brute.
The things she had said to him on the way down the grade had rankled in his mind, and stirred all the sullen pride in his nature to life, and he could not forget them as easily as she appeared to have done.

Good Indian was not in the habit of saying things, even in anger, which he did not mean, and he could not understand how anyone else could do so.
And the things she had said! But here she was, nevertheless, laughing at him and blushing adorably because he still held her fast, and making the blood of him race most unreasonably.
"Don't scold me, Aunt Phoebe," she begged, perhaps because there was something in Phoebe's face which she did not quite understand, and so mistook for disapproval of her behavior.

"I should have told you last night that we're--well, I SUPPOSE we're supposed to be engaged!" She twisted her hands away from him, and came down the steps to her aunt.
"It all happened so unexpectedly--really, I never dreamed I cared anything for him, Aunt Phoebe, until he made me care.

And last night I couldn't tell you, and this morning I was going to, but all this horrible trouble came up--and, anyway," she finished with a flash of pretty indignation, "I think Grant might have told you himself! I don't think it's a bit nice of him to leave everything like that for me.

He might have told you before he went chasing off to--to Hartley." She put her arms around her aunt's neck.