a moment looking
down at the girl with as near an expression of tenderness as the stern
eyes allowed: "My little lass," he murmured, as though speaking to
himself, "I ha' made ye angry wi' my chatter--an' I am glad. The anger
will pass--an' 'twill set ye thinkin'--that, an' what's here on the
paper." Reaching into his pocket he drew out a hand-bill and tossed it
upon the blankets. "'Tis na news to ye, bein' I mistrust, the same as
the one ye concealed in ye're bosom by the corral gate--'twas seein'
that loosed my tongue. For, I love ye, lass--an' 'twad be sair hard to
see ye spend ye're life repentin' the mistake of a moment. A mon 'twad
steal anither's wife, wad scarce hold high his ain. Gude night."
McWhorter turned abruptly, and passing into his own room, shut the
door.

Standing beside the table, Janet watched the door close behind her
father. The anger was gone from her heart, as McWhorter had said it
would go, and in its place was a wild desire to throw herself into his
arms as she used to do long, long ago--to sob her heart out against his
big breast, and to feel his big hand awkwardly stroking her hair, as he
muttered over and over again: "Theer, theer wee lassie, theer,
theer"--soothing words--those, that had eased her baby hurts and her
childish heartaches--she remembered how she used to press her little ear
close against his coarse shirt to hear the words rumble deep down in the
great chest. He had been a good father to his motherless little
girl--had Colin McWhorter.

The girl turned impulsively toward the closed door, hot tears brimming
her eyes. One step, and she stopped tense and listening. Yes, there it
was again--the sound of horse's hoofs. Dashing the tears from her eyes
she flung open the outer door and stood framed in the oblong of yellow
lamplight. Whoever it was had not stopped at the corral, but was riding
on toward the cabin. A figure loomed suddenly out of the dark and the
Texan drew up before the door.

"You here alone?" he inquired, stooping slightly to peer past her into
the cabin, "'cause if you are, I'll go on to the lambin' camp."

"No, Dad's here," she answered, "he's gone to bed."

The man dismounted. "Got any oats?" he asked, as he turned toward the
corral. "Blue's a good horse, an' I'd like him to have more'n just hay.
I may ride him hard, tomorrow."

"Yes--wait." The girl turned back into the cabin and came out with a
lighted lantern. "I'll go with you. They're in the stable."