“How?” It was a strained voice that answered him.
“By manhandling Bud Hemmingway for wrapping up the wrong ankle, ma’am!” he declared.
Both heard a cackle of mirth from the room behind them. And both turned, to see Bud Hemmingway retreating through a door into the kitchen.
It might have been Bud’s action that brought the smile to Miss Harlan’s face, or it might have been that she had forgiven Taylor. But at any rate Taylor read the smile correctly, and he succeeded in looking properly repentant when he felt Miss Harlan’s gaze upon him.
“I won’t play any more tricks—on you,” he declared. “You ain’t holding it against me?”
“If you will promise not to harm Bud,” she said.
“That goes,” he agreed, and went into the house to get his discarded boot.
When he reappeared, Miss Harlan was again seated in the chair. Swiftly her thoughts had reverted to the incident of the night before, and her face was wan and pale, and her lips pressed tightly together in a brave effort to repress the emotions that rioted within her. In spite of her courage, and of her determination not to let Taylor know of what had happened to her, her eyes were moist and her lips quivering.
He stepped close to her and peered sharply at her, standing erect instantly, his face grave.
“Shucks!” he said, accusingly; “I wouldn’t be called hospitable—now, would I? Standing here, talking a lot of nonsense, and you—you must have started early to get here by this time!” Again he flashed a keen glance at her, and his voice leaped.