When Haney came out from his supper, he stepped quietly in behind the counter and said: "I'll take your place. Get your grub. Then put on your hat and we'll drive out to see how the mother is." The girl acknowledged a sense of relief as she left him in charge and went to her seat in the far corner of the dining-room—a relief and a dangerous relaxation. It was, after all, a pleasure to feel that a strong, sure hand was out-stretched in sympathy—and she was tired. Even as she sat waiting for her tea the collapse came, and bowing her head to her hands she shook with silent sobs.
The waitresses stared, and young Mrs. Gilman came hurrying. "What's the matter, Bertie; are you sick?"
"Oh no—but I'm worried—about mother."
"You haven't heard anything—?"
"No, but she looked so old and so worn when she went away. She ought to have quit here a month ago."
"Well, I wouldn't worry. It's cooler out to the ranch, and the air is so pure she'll pick up right away—you'll see."
"I hope so, but she ought to take it easy the rest of her days. She's done work enough—and I'm kind o' discouraged myself."
Slowly she recovered her self-possession. She drank her tea in abstracted silence, and at last she said: "I'm going out there, Cassie; you'll have to look after things. I'll get some of the boys to 'tend the office."
"You're not going alone?"
"No, Mart Haney is going to drive me."