“And is that why you are going away?” she inquired.
“No—o,” he confessed. “It isn’t. I’m going away for one month, Josephine. Not because I want to test my love for you,—I’m sure of that,—but I want you to have time to think—and to be sure.” Then he added, “Am I presuming too much when I infer that perhaps you would want to consider caring for me?”
The girl-teacher answered frankly. “Until to-night I have thought of you merely as a comrade, a pal whom I enjoy more than I ever did any one else. But perhaps you are right. If you go away, we can tell better whether it is merely propinquity or love. Good-night.”
Frederick Edrington walked slowly back to the cabin, which was dark except for a dim light burning in the room that he now shared with Ken.
He would go to Colorado and inspect some work that was going on there, he decided. He had promised to send in a report of it before spring, and this would afford him that opportunity.
The little Martins were surprised and sorry to hear that their guest was leaving them. “I’ll be back in the spring,” he told them.
“That’s only a month away,” Dixie replied at the hour of parting.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
AN EVENTFUL SPRING
Spring came, and every mountain cañon held a rushing torrent. The sky was gloriously blue after the long months that it had been leaden-gray, and flowers began to appear in the crevices soon after the snow was gone.
Joy in the heart of the young school-teacher sang with the returning birds. Even the small Martin children seemed to be eagerly expectant.