She seemed genuinely amused by his extravagance. "It's nothing but a little cold chicken and some light bread. I made the bread yesterday; and the raspberry jam is mine also."
THE AUTHOR AND A FOREST RANGER[ToList]
"It's angels' food to me," he retorted, as he eyed the dainty napkins and the silver spoons and forks. "You don't know what this means to a man who lives on rice and prunes and kittle bread. I have a guilty feeling; I do, indeed. Seems like I'm getting all this thanksgiving treat under false pretenses. Perhaps you think I'm an English nobleman in disguise. But I'm not—I'm just a plain dub of a forest ranger, ninety dollars a month and board myself."
She laughed at his disclaimer, and yet under her momentary lightness he still perceived something of the strong current of bitter sadness which had so profoundly moved him at the inquest and which still remained unexplained; therefore he hesitated about referring to the Watson case.
As he ate, she stood to serve him, but not with the air of a serving-maid; on the contrary, though her face was bronzed by the winds, and her hands calloused by spade and hoe, there was little of the rustic in her action. Her blouse, cut sailor fashion at the throat, displayed a lovely neck (also burned by the sun), and she carried herself with the grace of an athlete. Her trust and confidence in her visitor became more evident each moment.
"No," she said in answer to his question. "We hardly ever have visitors. Now and then some cowboy rides past, but you are almost the only caller we have ever had. The settlers in the valley do not attract me."
"I should think you'd get lonesome."
She looked away, and a sterner, older expression came into her face. "I do, sometimes," she admitted; then she bravely faced him. "But my health is so much better—it was quite broken when I came—that I have every reason to be thankful. After all, health is happiness. I ought to be perfectly content, and I am when I think how miserable I once was."