But McFardell held himself under restraint. He had come to know something of Molly’s courage and independence. He realised, too, the innocence of her mind. Her beauty was unusual. Her shapeliness was something that ravished him. So he did his best to hide up the feelings she stirred in him.
“You know, Molly, it’s a mighty tough life, this homesteading,” he said, with the air of a man contemplating affairs in the abstract. “It beats me, the way you get through on your lonesome.”
“But I’ve got Lightning.”
The man laughed contemptuously.
“Lightning?” He shook his head. “The fag end of a misspent life.”
Molly’s smile died on the instant.
“You think that?” she cried, a flush mounting to her cheeks. “You needn’t. You surely needn’t. He’s no ‘fag end,’ and never will be. He’ll be ‘Two-gun Rogers’ to the day he dies. A reckless, headlong creature, who’d as soon fight as eat. Sooner. I couldn’t get along without him. He knows the game from A to Z, and puts it through. Besides, he’s more than that. Since father got broke up, he’s been a sort of father to me. He’s got all the courage when I weaken.”
“Sure. But—do you ever weaken?” McFardell asked, a little hastily.
Molly’s smile returned at once.
“You don’t get things. Weaken?” she cried. “Why, surely I do. I weaken most all the time. I don’t know. I love my life. I just love our poor farm. There isn’t a beast or a stick on it I don’t love, but—but—oh, I don’t know,” she went on, spreading out her hands. “It’s the same. Always the same. The seasons come an’ go. The whole round. An’ each season has its work. Sometimes——” She sighed a little hopelessly. Then she laughed. “But I’m not grumbling. Sure. Sure. It’s spring now. And the sun’s fine, and the birds are nesting. There’s mallard and geese in the sloughs. And—and I just feel glad about everything. Why, I’m not worried a thing about our six cows. I just can’t worry in springtime.”