Of a sudden she became conscious that Marylyn's eyes were upon her with a look of pathetic reproach. She began to laugh.
"Nonsense! honey," she said. "Don't be silly! Me! Why, he'd never like a great big gawk like me!"
"But—but——"
"Me, with my red hair—you know it is kinda red—and my face, sunburned as a' Indian—hands all calloused like—like a man's." She turned back to the dusk through the window. "Oh, no, not me."
"But you looked so funny just now."
"Did I? Did I?" Dallas stammered out her reason: "Well—well, that was because—because I thought you was going to say it was a soldier." She laughed—nervously. "But it was Mr. Lounsbury you meant, honey, wasn't it?"
The suspicion that had troubled the mind of the younger girl was allayed. "Why, Dallas, how could you think such a thing about me! Like a soldier? My, no! It was Mr. Lounsbury—but he don't like me."
She got up and went to the foot of her father's bunk. When she reappeared, she was carrying the soap-box that held her belongings. On the robe once more, she took out and held up to the light of the fire two books and a strip of beaded cloth.
The elder left the window and stood beside her.
"These are what he gave me," went on Marylyn, putting forward the books. "And this"—she showed the beadwork—"he asked me to make for him. But to-day," mournfully, "he didn't even speak of it."