“Surely you don’t consider me at fault?”
Worried as he was, the father was just. “No, you’re not to blame—no one is to blame. It all dates back to the horses quitting camp; but you’ve got to stand pat now—for Berrie’s sake.”
“But what can I do? I’m at your service. What rôle shall I play? Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”
McFarlane was staggered, but he answered: “You can at least stay on the ground and help fight. This is no time to stampede.”
“You’re right. I’ll stay, and I’ll make any statement you see fit. I’ll do anything that will protect Berrie.”
McFarlane again looked him squarely in the eyes. “Is there a—an agreement between you?”
“Nothing formal—that is—I mean I admire her, and I told her—” He stopped, feeling himself on the verge of the irrevocable. “She’s a splendid girl,” he went on. “I like her exceedingly, but I’ve known her only a few weeks.”
McFarlane interrupted. “Girls are flighty critters,” he said, sadly. “I don’t know why she’s taken to you so terrible strong; but she has. She don’t seem to care what people say so long as they do not blame you; but if you should pull out you might just as well cut her heart to pieces—” His voice broke, and it was a long time before he could finish. “You’re not at fault, I know that, but if you can stay on a little while and make it an ounce or two easier for her and for her mother, I wish you’d do it.”
Wayland extended his hand impulsively. “Of course I’ll stay. I never really thought of leaving.” In the grip of McFarlane’s hand was something warm and tender.
He rose. “I’m terribly obliged,” he said; “but we mustn’t let her suspect for a minute that we’ve been discussing her. She hates being pitied or helped.”