And Ma recognised that for the present the discussion was at an end.
But Paul was making his plans for departure. He had written two letters, Molly knew, for she had posted them. He had been down to the fort to see the sergeant, and Molly resolved that she would jog the elbow of fate.
“My! I wish I could play,” she said to Paul as he was allowing his fingers to carry his fancy whither it would.
“But you can, Molly,” said Paul, his generosity straining his conscience.
“Huh! ‘Silvery Waves,’ ‘Clayton’s Grand’ and ‘The Maiden’s Prayer!’” The infinite and bitter contempt in Molly’s voice startled Paul.
“Hello, Molly! Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From you,” said Molly sullenly. “I’ve heard you play.”
“Well, Molly, you are surely coming on. You have learned something you will never forget.”
“Say, Paul, I wish—I wish—you would learn—teach me to play! Say! Pa’s goin’ to offer you a job as his foreman. Won’t you take it—an’—an’—learn me to play?”
There was no egotism in Paul. He had no knowledge of the moods and ways of girls. But his instincts were true and his intuitions keen. Something in the girl’s voice and in her big blue eyes made him horribly uneasy. He was conscious of a quick desire to save her from humiliation.