The glance he leveled at his daughter was pleased and proud; and there was a depth of affection in it that was touching.
“Well,” Wanza repeated lightly, “I sure do like to shoot things.”
“Things!—squirrels, rabbits, birds—what?” I winked at Captain Grif.
“You know me better than that!” she stormed.
“What then?”
“Well—the bear, if I meet him alone.”
“With a twenty-two!”
A SUDDEN YEARNING SPRANG UP
I turned my back on her and spurred forward to Haidee’s side. Haidee sat her mount superbly. She wore the blue riding skirt and white blouse she had worn on the occasion of her first visit to Cedar Dale. She was hatless. Her hair was loosely braided. She swayed lightly in her saddle. There was something bonny, almost insouciant in her bearing this morning. Wanza rode beside her father with Joey on the saddle before her, and they lagged behind Haidee and me persistently, stopping so often that once or twice we lost sight of them completely when the road curved or we dipped down into a hollow. Whenever I glanced around at Wanza I saw her riding with her face upturned to the trees, a detached look on her face. Once I heard her whistle to a bluebird and once I heard her sing. The pathos of her song clutched me by the throat. In the midst of a speech to Haidee I stopped short. In my heart a sudden yearning sprang up, a yearning only half understood; I longed to help, to lift Wanza—to make her more like the woman at my side—more finished, less elemental. In spite of my wonder and worship of Haidee the pathos of Wanza’s simple, ignorant life stirred me—yes, and hurt me!