He leaned toward her and laid his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel.
"You'll be so happy in it," he said softly.
A sudden surge of feeling, more poignant than anything she had yet felt, sent a pricking of tears to her eyes. She turned her face away, longing in sudden misery for some one to whom she could speak plainly, some one who once had felt as she did now. For the first time she wished that there was another woman in the train. Her instinct told her that men could not understand. Unable to bear her father's glad assurance she said a hasty word about going back and telling Daddy John and wheeled her horse toward the prairie schooner behind them.
Daddy John welcomed her by pushing up against the roof prop and giving her two thirds of the driver's seat. With her hands clipped between her knees she eyed him sideways.
"What do you think's going to happen?" she said, trying to compose her spirits by teasing him.
"It's going to rain," he answered.
This was not helpful or suggestive of future sympathy, but at any rate, it was not emotional.
"Now, Daddy John, don't be silly. Would I get off my horse and climb up beside you to ask you about the weather?"
"I don't know what you'd do, Missy, you've got that wild out here on the plains—just like a little buffalo calf."
He glimpsed obliquely at her, his old face full of whimsical tenderness. She smiled bravely and he saw above the smile, her eyes, untouched by it. He instantly became grave.