Haney was sitting on the porch where they had left him, the collie at his feet, but at sight of them returning he rose and hobbled slowly down the walk, his heart filled with tenderness and admiration for his wife. He had never ridden with her, but he had once seen her mounted, and one of his expressed wishes had been that he might be able to sit a saddle once more and ride by her side.
"Come in and stay to dinner!" he called, hospitably, and Bertha eagerly seconded the invitation.
But Alice replied: "I'm pretty tired; I think I'll go home. You can stay if you like, Ben."
Ben, smitten with sudden contrition, quickly said: "Oh no; I will go with you. I'm afraid you've ridden too far."
She protested against this, for Bertha's relief. "Not at all. It's a good tiredness. It's been great fun."
And with promises of another expedition of the same sort they rode away, while Bertha and Haney remained at the gate to examine the new horse.
As little Mrs. Haney re-entered the house with her husband the day seemed to lose its magical brightness, and to decline to a humdrum, shadowless flare. The house became cold and gloomy and the day empty. For the first time since its purchase she mentally asked herself: "What will I do now?" It was as if some ruling motive had suddenly been withdrawn from her life.
This empty, aching spot remained with her all through the day, even when she took Haney for his drive down-town, and only disappeared for a few moments as they met young Fordyce on the street. It troubled her as she returned to the house, and she was glad that Williams came in to take supper with them, for his talk of the mine diverted her and deeply interested her husband.
Williams eyed his boss critically. "You're gainin', Captain. You'll soon be able to make camp again."
"I hope so, but the doctor says my heart's affected and it wouldn't be safe for me to go any higher—for a while."