He led the way through the bushes and they sat down together. I cannot say what Marjie thought as she looked out on the landscape I had watched in loneliness the night before. It was O'mie, and not his companion, who told me long afterwards of this evening.
"I thought you were away on a ten days' vacation, O'mie. Dever said you were." She could not bear the silence.
"I'm on a tin days' vacation, but I'm not away, Marjie, darlin'," O'mie replied.
"Oh, O'mie, don't joke. I can't stand it to-night." Her face was white and her eyes were full of pain.
"Indade, I'm not jokin'. I came up here to show you somethin' and to tell you somethin'."
He took an old note book from his pocket and opened it to where a few brown blossoms lay flatly pressed between the leaves.
"Thim's not pretty now, Marjie, but the day I got 'em they was dainty an' pink as the dainty pink-cheeked girl whose brown curls they was wreathed about. These are the flowers Phil Baronet put on your hair out in the West Draw by the big cottonwood one April evenin' durin' the war; the flowers Jean Pahusca kissed an' throwed away. But I saved 'em because I love you, Marjie."
She shivered and bent her head.
"Oh, not like thim two ornery tramps who had these blossoms 'fore I got 'em, but like I'd love a sister, if I had one; like Father Le Claire loves me. D'ye see?"
"You are a dear, good brother, O'mie," Marjie murmured, without lifting her head.