“My poor dear boy!” soothed his wife, her hand on his downbent head. “Let us trust that they are in a happier world, a world where sorrow and pain––”
“If only I could believe that!” he groaned.
Genevieve waited a few moments and with quiet tactfulness sought to divert him from his grief: “If Chuckie reminds you of them, Dear––”
“She might be either––only Mary, the older one, had dark brown eyes. But Belle’s were blue like Chuckie’s.”
“What a pure blue her eyes are––the sweet true girl! Why can’t you regard her as your sister, and––and give over further thought of this irrigation project?”
Blake looked up, completely diverted. “You little schemer! So that’s what you’ve been working around to?”
“But why not?” she insisted.
“I’ll tell you. It is because I am so fond of Chuckie that I am determined to get water on Dry Mesa, if it is possible.”
“To make use of those waste waters,” he explained; “to turn this dusty semi-desert into a garden; and to benefit Chuckie by doubling the value of her father’s property.”