Blanche shook her head admonishingly.
“Say, my dear, some day I’m going to be married myself,” she said, and her manner was very, very gentle. “I love the man I’m going to marry with all my foolish heart. He’s not a good-looker like your Andy. And he’s got a mop of scarlet hair and a bunch of foolish freckles. But I’m not going to let him set me crazy. It’s not good to get too crazy that way. I—I may come to your wedding if I’m around here when the time comes?”
Molly nodded, and her smile was one of sheer exaltation.
“Surely, Blanche,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right without you.”
Blanche took the girl by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Good. So long, Molly,” she said.
Molly was standing at the open doorway. Blanche had ridden away. She had long since vanished round the bluff where the grass-trail followed its outline in the direction where her father had been in the habit of hewing his cordwood. Lightning had been into the house for his meal. He had eaten it and returned again to his work. Molly had seen him moving out with his team, heading for the hay slough. Her own work was awaiting her.
The last shadow of her smile had passed. And the cloud of dispiritedness had resettled itself in the pathetic depression of her brows. The interim of relief had passed with the going of her mysterious friend. Once more she had fallen back into that distressing mood which had inspired the cattleman’s appeal at Blanche’s coming.