"I may as well tell you the other side of the story." Jerry's voice trembled a little. "Cousin Gene Wellington was in the same boat with me, a dependent like myself. But now that he has given up to Aunt Jerry's wishes, I suppose he will be her heir some day, unless I go back and get forgiven."
"This artist's father was in business with your father once, wasn't he?" York asked.
"Yes, and there was something I never could understand, and Aunt Jerry never mentioned, about that; but she did say often that Cousin Gene would make up for what John Wellington lacked, if things went her way. They haven't all gone her way—only half of them, so far."
"Do you fully understand what you are giving up, Jerry?" York asked, earnestly. "That life might be a much pleasanter story back East, even if it were a bit less romantic than the story on the Sage Brush. Might not your good judgment take you back, in spite of a little pride and the newness of a different life here?"
As York spoke, Jerry Swaim sat looking earnestly into his face, but when he had finished she said, lightly:
"I thought before I saw you that you were an old man. You seem more like a brother now. I never had a brother, nor a sister—nothing but myself, which makes too big a houseful anywhere." She grew serious again as she continued: "I do understand what I'm giving up. It was tabulated in a letter to me yesterday, and I do not give up lightly nor for a girl's whim now. I have my time extended. There seems to be indefinite patience at the other end of the line, if I'll only be sure to agree at last."
"Pardon me, Jerry, if I ask you if it is a question of mere funds." York spoke carefully. "I know that Mrs. Darby may be drawn on at any time for that purpose."
"Did she tell you so?" Jerry asked, bluntly.
"She did—when you first came here," York replied, as bluntly.
Jerry did not dream of the struggle that was on in the mind of the man before her, but her own strife had made her more thoughtful.