“It’s that grass widow, Sally O’Dowd,” said Mrs. Ranger.
“She’s booked for a solid hour,” snapped Marjorie, “and we’ll have to delay supper till nine o’clock.”
The Squire had barely time to reach his office by an inner passage and seat himself before the fire, when Mrs. O’Dowd—an oversized, plainly dressed, intelligent-looking woman, who was remarkably handsome, notwithstanding the expression of pain upon her face—entered the office and stood silent before the open fire.
“Well,” exclaimed the Squire, impatiently, motioning her to a chair, “what can I do for you now?”
“Oh, Squire!” she cried, ignoring the proffered chair and dropping on her knees at his feet, her wealth of rippling hair falling about her face and over her shapely shoulders like a deluge of gold, “I want you to take me with you to Oregon.”
“What! And leave your children to the care of others? I didn’t think that of you, Mrs. O’Dowd.”
“But what else can I do? You know the court has assigned the custody of all three of my babies to Sam.”
“Yes, Sally; but you can see them once in a while if you stay here.”
“The court gave them to Samuel and his mother absolutely, you know.”