“We were somewhat hurt that he would not come home; but after past mistakes I could not urge him, and it seemed possible that he might change his mind later. Then the dreadful blow fell—crushing and filling me with all the bitterness of useless regret. I had spoken too late; the opportunity I would not use in time had gone.”
He broke off, and his face had grown white and stern when he went on again:
“There is only one thing I can do, but if needful, I will devote the rest of my life to it—that is, to track down the man who killed my son!”
He was silent for the next few minutes, and then, after a few words on indifferent subjects, intended, Prescott thought, to cover his display of feeling, he turned away, leaving the rancher smoking thoughtfully.
CHAPTER VIII
A DAY ON THE PRAIRIE
A week after Jernyngham’s arrival at the homestead he sat among the sheaves in the harvest field late one afternoon studying a letter which the mail-carrier had just brought him. His daughter, sheltered from the strong sunlight by the tall stocked sheaves, was reading an elegantly bound book of philosophy. Gertrude Jernyngham had strict rules of life and spent an hour or two of every day in improving her mind, without, so far as her friends had discovered, any enlargement of her outlook. Among her numerous virtues was an affectionate solicitude about her father’s health, which was variable. Though still muscularly vigorous, Jernyngham was getting an old man, and he had been out of sorts of late.
“I’m glad you are looking much better than you did this morning,” she said, glancing at him after a while.