The Texan smiled as he rose. Something in that first glance, which she had given him, told him that his cause was not lost.
“Not in love or in war,” he said. “Nobody ever accused us of being deliberate in those things.”
“Well, apparently there’s too much war in the atmosphere around here, just now, for any other sentiment to flourish,” retorted the girl.
“Nothing can supplant real love,” said the Texan. “It’s thrived during centuries of wars. I’ve said my say, and, before I leave this part of the country, I’m coming for my answer.”
“Well, I answer all civil questions and some impertinent ones,” replied Alma. “Maybe I’ll answer yours in the latter category. But, anyway, it’s lucky you’ve put off getting your answer, for here comes Uncle Billy.”
The tall figure of the naturalist could be seen coming across the clearing. He seldom rode, and this habit alone would have condemned him as mildly insane, in a country where men were known to mount their horses rather than walk across a road. But there was not any part of the high hills that the naturalist had not covered in his daily prospecting for whatever treasures the forest might yield. In his later years he cared nothing about killing wild animals. He had secured a mounted specimen of every species of game, even to the final survivors of the wild bison, and now all that interested him was to observe the wild creatures in their haunts.
“Mr. Bertram says he is going to leave us, now that he considers that you have cured him, Uncle Billy,” was the girl’s greeting.
Uncle Billy paused, his face showing keen disappointment. Although his rough clothes hung loosely on his gaunt frame, there was a certain dignity in his movements that never failed to impress. His gray eyes, under their shaggy brows, were kindly, as they turned to the Texan.
“I’m sorry,” said the naturalist. “I had hopes that you could finish writing out those notes for me.”
He alluded to some secretarial work, which Bertram had started during his illness, the transcription and arrangement of valuable, but scattered, notes which the naturalist had made.