Custer moved restlessly. Again he was giving evidence of suffering. She laid a cool palm upon his forehead, and stroked it. He opened his eyes and smiled up at her.
“It’s bully of you to sit with me,” he said; “but you ought to be in bed. You’ve had a pretty hard day, and you’re not as used to it as we are.”
“I am not tired,” she said, “and I should like to stay—if you would like to have me.”
He took her hand from his forehead and kissed it.
“Of course I like to have you here, Shannon—you’re just like a sister. It’s funny, isn’t it, that we should all feel that way about you, when we’ve only known you a few weeks? It must have been because of the way you fitted in. You belonged right from the start—you were just like us.”
She turned her head away suddenly, casting her eyes upon the floor and biting her lip to keep back the tears.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I am not like you, Custer; but I have tried hard to be.”
“Why aren’t you like us?” he demanded.
“I—why, I—couldn’t ride a horse,” she explained lamely.