“Wal?”
“Perhaps he—loved—me—so he could not control himself. I am sure he is not to blame for loving me.”
A woman all over. They never think the less of a man for loving them, however low he may be. If they did they would be disparaging themselves.
“I guess yer’d better go ter bed—I’m going.”
She arose and lighted another candle and then kissed him tenderly.
“Good-night, dear father,” she said. “A pleasant night and happy dreams. I know you will feel softer in the morning. Good-night.”
The cabin contained two rooms; one sacred as her sleeping room, the other the kitchen, parlor, dining and her father’s sleeping room.
She had a bedstead with a soft bed, pure and white as was she; he had a double blanket, with a valise for a pillow; she had a window in her room large enough for a bear to clamber through; he had none.
The window was of glass and opened like a door—on hinges. It was about five feet from the floor and was usually kept closed at night with a button, but as the summer nights were hot and uncomfortable, she left it open to admit the cool breeze—in her innocence never dreading harm.
She went into her room and closed the door, her father directly going to bed, sleeping on his gun; Robert Jeffries was wary.