“Come in, Ned,” said Houston cordially. “We want you here to complete the family group.”
Ned looked rather bewildered, as he replied: “I just wanted to inquire for Miss Maverick, to know if she was better.”
“She is much better,” said Houston with a smile, but before he could say anything further, Morton turned toward his brother, saying in gentle, quiet tones, but with a look in his eye which spoke volumes to Ned’s inner consciousness:
“Ned, this is Miss Maverick no longer, but Miss Washburn, the grand-daughter of the Mr. Cameron whom we expect here to-morrow.”
Poor Ned Rutherford! If he had ever laid any claim to dignity and self-possession, they both deserted him now. Utterly bereft of speech, he stood for a moment as if petrified. Then approaching Lyle, he stammered:
“I beg your pardon, Miss,––Miss Washburn, but that is always Mort’s way, to spring anything on me in such a fashion as to knock me out completely. I beg your pardon for appearing so stupid, and I congratulate you on the good news, and extend you my best wishes, Miss–––”
“Oh, call me Lyle,” she interrupted, with a rippling laugh. “I have a right to that name yet.”
“Is that so?” said Ned, with the air of a drowning man clutching at a straw. “Thank you; I’m glad that’s left for a sort of land mark, you know. I’ll call you ‘Lyle’ then, ’till I can get accustomed to the new name,” and he sank in a heap in the nearest chair.
The letter was read, and bitter were the denunciations against Maverick.
“The scoundrel! He ought to be lynched this very night,” said Ned. “That’s the way they do those things out here.”