“They didn’t have rifles in the dark ages,” said Westy.
“I know, but it’s just the way Doris talks; she’s very modern and independent. She shouldn’t say that a hundred dollars isn’t a great deal of money, for it is. Maybe it isn’t a great deal for Charlie Westcott and those friends of hers, but it’s a good deal for you, dear.”
Westy sat on the edge of the bed half listening, his eyes brimming. And it is odd, when you come to think of it, that no one save a rough farm hand with an exceedingly varied and checkered career, had ever taken particular notice of a certain quality in those gray eyes.
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Martin with deep sympathy and affection, “I’m so sorry, so sorry for the whole thing. Your father should never have suggested your going to work on the farm. Now he says he never wants to hear the Yellowstone mentioned. Doris says she thinks we may have to take the yellow vase from the parlor because it will remind him of the Yellowstone——”
“I don’t mind,” said Westy, getting command enough of himself to speak. “I had fun working and I don’t mind about the hundred dollars.”
“And it was so noble and straightforward of you to tell your father what you had done. I told him if he had only given you a chance you might have explained. I told him that perhaps the deer was chasing you and intended to kill you.”
Westy smiled ruefully.
“Was it?” his mother ventured to ask.
“No, deers don’t run after people,” Westy said.
“Well, I don’t know anything about them,” said his mother resignedly.