The Schoolmarm never had appeared more trim, more self-respecting, more desirable, than when in her clean, white shirt-waist and well-cut skirt she stepped forward to greet him with a friendly, outstretched hand. His heart beat wildly as he took it.
“I was afraid you had gone ‘for keeps,’” she said.
“Were you afraid?” he asked eagerly.
“Not exactly afraid, to be more explicit, but I should have been sorry.” She smiled up into his face with her frank, ingenuous smile.
“Why?”
“You were getting along so well with your lessons. Besides, I should have thought it unfriendly of you to go without saying good-by.”
“Unfriendly?” Smith laughed shortly. “Me unfriendly! Why, girl, you’re like a mountain to me. When I’m tired and hot and all give out, I raises my eyes and sees you there above me—quiet and cool and comfortable, like—and I takes a fresh grip.”
“I’m glad I help you,” Dora replied gently. “I want to.”
“I’m in the way of makin’ a stake now,” Smith went on, “and when I gets it”—he hesitated—“well, when I gets it I aims to let you know.”
When Dora went into the house, to her own room, Smith stepped into the living-room, where the Indian woman sat by the window.