“Yes, ma’am,” said Helen, slowly, fearing that she had unwittingly got into a blind alley of conversation.
“And your father owns that ranch?” cried Miss Van Ramsden.
“My—my father is dead,” said Helen. “I am an orphan.”
“Oh, dear me! I am so sorry,” murmured the wealthy young lady.
But here Belle broke in, rather scornfully:
“The child means that her father worked on that ranch. She has lived there all her life. Quite a rude place, I fawncy.”
Helen’s eyes snapped. “Yes. He worked there,” she admitted, which was true enough, for nobody could honestly have called Prince Morrell a sluggard.
“He was—what you call it—a cowpuncher, I believe,” whispered Belle, in an aside.
If Helen heard she made no sign, but went on with her story.
“You see, it was such a pretty calf,” she repeated. “It had big blue eyes at first—calves often do. And it was all sleek and brown, and it played so cunning. Of course, its mother being dead, I had a lot of trouble with it at first. I brought it up by hand.