“But he didn’t die for his country,” she reminded her niece practically. “He’s very much alive, and here. He’s got his ranch back, with the addition of valuable oil deposits, or whatever you call them, which, Bud tells me, might not have been discovered for years but for this.” She paused, her eyes fixed intently on the girl. “Do you—love him, Mary?” she asked abruptly. 351
The girl looked up at her, a slow flush creeping into her face. “What difference does that make?” she protested. “I could never make up to him for—for what—father did.”
“It makes every difference in the world,” retorted Mrs. Archer positively. “As for making up— Why, don’t you know that you’re more to him than ranches, or oil wells, or—anything on earth? You must realize that in your heart.”
Placing her handkerchief on the window-ledge, she rose briskly.
“I really must go and change my shoes,” she said in quite a different tone. “These slippers seem to—er—pinch a bit.”
If they really did pinch, there was no sign of it as she crossed the room and disappeared through a door at the farther end. Mary stared after her, puzzled and a little hurt at the apparent lack of sympathy in one to whom she had always turned for comfort and understanding. Then her mind flashed back to her aunt’s farewell words, and her brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
A knock at the door made her start nervously, and for a long moment she hesitated before replying. At the sight of Buck Stratton standing on the threshold, she flushed painfully and sprang to her feet. 352
“Good morning,” he said gently, as he came quickly over to her. “I hope you’re feeling a lot better.”
“Oh, yes,” she answered briefly. “I’m really quite all right now.”
He had taken her hand and still held it, and somehow the mere pressure of his fingers embarrassed her oddly and seemed to weaken her resolution.