"I'm afraid it will be our last; there's nothing left to sell but the fence."
She glanced at him with relief in her eyes, a quick smile coming happily to her lips. He was busy with the account of calves and grown stock which he had drawn from his wallet, the check lying by his hand. His face taken as an index to it, there was not much lightness in his heart. Soon he had acquitted himself of his stewardship and given the check into her hand. Then he rose to leave her. For a moment he stood silent, as if turning his thoughts.
"I'm going away," he said, looking out of the window down upon the tops of the naked cottonwoods along the river.
Just around the corner of the table she was standing, half facing him, looking at him with what seemed almost compassionate tenderness, so sympathetic were her eyes. She touched his hand where it lay with fingers on his hat-brim.
"Is it so hard for you to forget her, Duke?"
He looked at her frankly, no deceit in his eyes, but a mild surprise to hear her chide him so.
"If I could forget of her what no forgiving soul should remember, I'd feel more like a man," he said.
"I thought—I thought—" she stammered, bending her head, her voice soft and low, "you were grieving for her, Duke. Forgive me."
"Taterleg is leaving tonight," he said, overlooking her soft appeal. "I thought I'd go at the same time."
"It will be so lonesome here on the ranch without you, Duke—lonesome as it never was lonesome before."