“Good-bye, Mr. Rolypoly,” she responded, laughing. “You always could think of things for other people to do; and have never done anything yourself until now. Good-bye, father.”
When he was gone and out of sight her face changed. With sudden anger she crushed and crumpled up the draft for five hundred in her hand. “‘A token of affection from both!’” she exclaimed, quoting from the letter. “One lone leaf of Irish shamrock from him would—”
She stopped. “But he will send a message of his own,” she continued. “He will—he will. Even if he doesn’t, I’ll know that he remembers just the same. He does—he does remember.”
She drew herself up with an effort, and, as it were, shook herself free from the memories which dimmed her eyes.
Not far away a man was riding towards the clump of trees where she was. She saw, and hastened to her horse.
“If I told John all I feel he’d understand. I believe he always has understood,” she added with a far-off look.
The draft was still crushed in her hand when she mounted the beloved horse, whose name now was Shiel.
Presently she smoothed out the crumpled paper. “Yes, I’ll take it; I’ll put it by,” she murmured. “John will keep on betting. He’ll be broke some day and he’ll need it, maybe.”
A moment later she was riding hard to meet the man who, before the wheat-harvest came, would call her wife.