Henderson marvelled how she could in those few minutes have rescued the cabin from the desolation in which the storm had plunged it. Out of the window he could see the stricken grasses dripping cold moisture, and the sky still angrily plunging forward like a disturbed sea. Not a tree or a house broke the view. The desolation of it swept over him as it never had before. But within the little ones were chattering to themselves in odd baby dialect, and the mother was laughing with them.
“Women aren't always useless,” she said, at parting; “and you tell your chums that when they get hungry for a slice of homemade bread they can get it here. And the next time they go by, I want them to stop in and look at the children. It'll do them good. They may think they won't enjoy themselves, but they will.”
“Oh, I'll answer for that!” cried he, shaking hands with her. “I'll tell them we have just the right sort of a neighbor.”
“Thank you,” said she, heartily. “And you may tell them that her name is Catherine Ford.”
Once at home, he told his story.
“H'm!” said Gillispie, “I guess I'll have to go to town myself to-morrow.”
Henderson looked at him blackly. “She's a woman alone, Gillispie,” said he, severely, “trying to make her way with handicaps—”
“Shet up, can't ye, ye darned fool?” roared Gillispie. “What do yeh take me fur?”
Waite was putting on his rubber coat preparatory to going out for his night with the cattle. “Guess you're makin' a mistake, my boy,” he said, gently. “There ain't no danger of any woman bein' treated rude in these parts.”
“I know it, by Jove!” cried Henderson, in quick contriteness.