“Oh Drusilla!” thundered Bunker and at last she came running, bounding in through the garden door. She was attired in a filmy robe, caught up for dancing, and her feet were in Grecian sandals; and at sight of Denver she drew back a step, then stood firm and glanced at her father.
“Here’s that five hundred dollars,” said Bunker briefly and put the roll in her hand.
“Oh–did you sell it?” she demanded in dismay “did you sell that Number One claim?”
“You bet I did,” answered her father grimly, “so take your money and beat it.”
“But I told you not to!” she went on reproachfully, ignoring Denver entirely. “I told you not to sell it!”
“That’s all right,” grumbled Bunker, “you’re going to get your chance, if it takes the last cow in the barn. I know you’ve got it in you to be a great singer–and this’ll take you back to New York.”
“Well, all right,” she responded tremulously, “I 94did want just one more chance. But if I don’t succeed I’m going to teach school and pay every dollar of this back.”
She turned and disappeared out the garden door and Bunker Hill reached for his hat.
“Come on over to the store,” he said and Denver followed in a daze. She was not like any woman he had ever dreamed of, nor was she the woman he had thought. In the night, when she was singing, she had seemed slender and ethereal with her swan’s neck and piled up hair; but now she was different, a glorious human animal, strong and supple yet with the lines of a girl. And her eyes were still the eyes of a child, big and round and innocently blue.
“Here comes the Professor,” muttered Bunker gloomily, as he unlocked the heavy door, “he’s hep, I reckon, the way he walks.”