"Oh, it does now, of course; but for years after my mother's death he was so broken down that he could not bear to mix with people at all, and he chose to bury himself out on a Western ranch, and there I grew up with no more training than the little Indian girls who used to come to the house with beads and things to sell. It was a queer life for a girl; but it was great sport."
Winifred had almost forgotten her companion for the moment in her thoughts of the past; but as he rubbed his hand across his forehead in the effort to recall something, she mistook the gesture for a sign of weariness, and reproached herself for her egotistical garrulity.
"I do wish," she said hastily, "that there were some way out of this unlucky matter,—some way which would not send you back so unseasonably."
"Never mind that," Flint answered; "my vacation was almost at an end, anyway. I am really needed now at the office of the 'Trans-Continental.'"
"The 'Trans-Continental'?" echoed Winifred. "Do you work on that magazine?"
"Yes, I do a little writing for it occasionally."
"Then perhaps you know the editor—the chief editor, I mean."
"Yes, he is a friend of mine."
"I envy you the privilege of calling such a man your friend. Oh, you may smile if you choose, but perhaps, after all, you do not know him as well as I do. I have never seen him, I don't even know his name, and yet I have a clear picture of him in my mind. And he has been so kind—so good to me. His letters have helped me more than he will ever know." [Pg 173] Here a sudden thought seemed to strike the girl, and she lifted beseeching eyes to his face.