At Flat Rock Junction he had to change to another road. There was an exasperating wait of three-quarters of an hour, during which he nearly wore a rut in the wooden platform. Another weary, interminable hour followed; but at last, shortly after one, he flung himself off the still-moving train at Billings, and dashed up the main street.
The air was soft and warm and caressing. Trees and shrubs were bursting into leaf; flowers were everywhere. Here and there a bird caroled joyously, and the sound stabbed Lefty like the thrust of a knife. How could any living thing be joyful when her father lay dying?
Rounding a corner, he scarcely dared look at the house where they had taken lodgings. Perhaps he had come too late. Perhaps it was all over.
He reached the wooden gate and thrust it open. A rustle of skirts sounded on the vine-clad porch, the quick catching of a breath, then a cry of glad surprise:
“Why, Lefty!”
She started up from the rocking-chair, her face pink and her eyes sparkling. A little smile curved the corners of her tender mouth, bringing out the dimple which had always fascinated him.
The man stared up in petrified astonishment. What did it mean? Was he dreaming, or had she gone daft?
“Why, Lefty!” she exclaimed again. “This is splendid! How did you ever manage to get away?”
He swallowed hard and, without knowing what he did, wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead.
“I came,” he gasped. “Your—father, Janet?”