There were many watchers of the girl's progression during the winter months: Mrs. Leslie, who might be said to await the moment when a shove might throw the girl off her balance headlong into Molyneux's arms; the settlers, who anticipated such a denouement with scandalous tongues; the remittance-men, who betted on the result, basing odds on her lonely condition. To these there could be but one end. Always the human soul reaches for happiness, and the fact that she had once mistaken Dead Sea fruit for love's golden apples would not prevent her from tiptoeing to pluck again. Would she pluck?
Molyneux, for one, was sure that she would, and, having the courage of his conviction, put his hope into speech, choosing an opportune time. Nels always drove her over to Leslie's, and at first brought her home. But by the middle of February the latter part of the task fell by consent of all to Molyneux, and he spoke while driving her home one afternoon.
"Read this," he said, handing her a telegram that called him to his father's death-bed.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, impulsively.
"For what," he questioned, "his sickness or my absence?"
"Both," she frankly answered. "You have been—very nice to me. I shall miss you."
Now this was all very proper, but when he stated that he should be gone at least seven weeks she ought to have veiled her concern. But she did not, and the regret that swam in the hazel eyes strengthened his purpose. "Before I go I must say something. How long is our present relation to last?"
The raise of her eyebrows might have meant anything. He took it as encouragement, and ran on, "You know that I love—have always loved you."
Here, according to the canons, she ought to have withered him. Instead she gave him the truth. "I am not blind."
"Thanks for your candor. Now, a step further—do you intend to remain his bondwoman?"