"But Mr. Orme was saying that he rather thought you might take an escort and go back down the river."
"I wish Mr. Orme no disrespect," I answered, "but neither he nor any one else regulates my travel. I have already told you how necessary it was for me to see your father, Colonel Meriwether."
"Yes, I remember. But tell me, why did not your father himself come out?"
I did not answer her for a time. "My father is dead," I replied finally.
I saw her face flush in quick trouble and embarrassment. "Why did you not tell me? I am so sorry! I beg your pardon."
"No," I answered quietly, "we Quakers never wish to intrude our own griefs, or make any show of them. I should have told you, but there were many other things that prevented for the time." Then, briefly, I reviewed the happenings that had led to my journey into the West. Her sympathy was sweet to me.
"So now, you see, I ought indeed to return," I concluded, "but I can not. We shall be at Laramie now very soon. After that errand I shall go back to Virginia."
"And that will be your home?"
"Yes," I said bitterly. "I shall settle down and become a staid old farmer. I shall be utterly cheerless."
"You must not speak so. You are young."