“You may be sure,” said I, when she had finished her story, “that no one will do you any wrong here, and that care will not fail you; as to your father, California is the healthiest country on earth, and no one dies of fever there. In every case, while I am alive, you will not be left alone; and meanwhile may God bless your sweet face!”
“Thank you, captain,” answered she, with emotion, and we went on; but my heart beat with more violence. Gradually our conversation became livelier, and no one could foresee that that sky above us would become cloudy.
“But all here are kind to you, Miss Morris?” asked I again, not supposing that just that question would be the cause of misunderstanding.
“Oh yes, all,” said she, “and Aunt Atkins and Aunt Grosvenor, and Henry Simpson too is very good.”
This mention of Simpson pained me suddenly, like the bite of a snake.
“Henry is a mule-driver,” answered I curtly, “and has to care for the wagons.”
But Lillian, occupied with the course of her own thoughts, had not noticed the change in my voice, and spoke on as if to herself,—
“He has an honest heart, and I shall be grateful to him all my life.”
“Miss Morris,” interrupted I, cut to the quick, “you may even give him your hand. I wonder, however, that you choose me as a confidant of your feelings.”
When I said that she looked at me with astonishment but made no reply, and we went on together in disagreeable silence. I knew not what to say, though my heart was full of bitterness and anger toward her and myself. I felt simply conquered by jealousy of Simpson, but still I could not fight against it. The position seemed to me so unendurable that I said all at once briefly and dryly,—