“A king, ma’am,” the old man corrected. “I’ll hand him a rub-down an’ feed him good,” he went on. “You’ll be makin’ the house right away?” His gaze passed to a thoughtful contemplation of Molly’s storm doorway. “I guess you’ll feel most like sayin’ a piece that’ll set Molly, gal, in sperrits?”
Blanche smiled into his earnest face.
“I surely will,” she said, turning and passing on up to the house.
The thing lying behind the old cattleman’s words was soon made apparent to Blanche. It was there in the troubled eyes of Molly as she struggled hard to smile a warmth of real welcome.
Molly was at work. She had spent the morning in almost feverish effort. And it was an expression of a mind that was endeavouring to escape from itself. Molly was full of simple gratitude to this stranger who had so suddenly and even mysteriously, come into her life. And almost her first words were of thanks.
But the girl’s appearance shocked Blanche. She was wholly unprepared for anything beyond the reaction of a glorious social adventure. Molly looked ill. And it seemed to Blanche that all the sunny enthusiasm, all the happy youth, of which she had carried away such a vivid impression after their first meeting, were entirely lacking. To her mind, if Molly had encountered some terrible grief rather than participated in the riotous delight of her first dance, her spirits and appearance could not have suffered more.
Her concern found almost instant expression.
“Why, child,” she exclaimed, “you look like a little ghost.” Then she shook her head. “The belle of the Hartspool ball never looked like that last night, I’ll wager. Was the floor bad? Was the music a dirge? Did your frock get mussed? Tell me.”
Molly denied with so much vehemence and endeavour to convince that she completely failed to allay the other’s apprehension.