Thus it was, that when Mary languidly opened her eyes a little later, it was the Boss who sat beside her and smiled reassuringly.
“You have not slept a wink,” she cried, accusingly.
“Indeed I have,” he said. “Three whole hours. I feel tip-top.”
“You are—fibbing,” she said. “Your eyes look so tired, and your face is all worn.”
His heart leaped with the joy of her solicitude.
“You are wrong,” he laughed, teasingly. “I slept on the floor; and a good bed it was, too. No, Miss Williston, I am not ‘all in’ yet, by any means.”
In his new consciousness, a new formality crept into his way of addressing her. She did not seem to notice it.
“Forgive me for forgetting, last night,” she said, earnestly. “I was very selfish. I forgot that you had not slept for nearly two days, and were riding all the while in—our behalf. I forgot. I was tired, and I went to sleep. I want you to forgive me. I want you to believe that I do appreciate what you have done. My father—”
“Don’t, don’t, little girl,” cried Langford, forgetting his new awe of her maidenhood in his pity for the stricken child.
“My father,” she went on, steadily, “would thank you if he were here. I thank you, too, even if I did forget to think whether or no you and all the men had any sleep or anything to eat last night. Will you try to believe that I did not forget wittingly? I was so tired.”