So he dismounted and entered the weather-battered abode of Santry; and she looked after him with an expression on her face that he had never surprised there.
Meanwhile, along the gray village thoroughfare the good folk peeped out at her where she sat her mare, unconscious, deep in maiden meditation.
She had done much for her people; she was doing much. Fiction might add that they adored her, worshipped her very footprints!—echoes all of ancient legends of a grateful tenantry that the New World believes in but never saw.
After a little while Burleson emerged from Santry’s house, gravely returning the effusive adieus of the family.
“You are perfectly welcome,” he said, annoyed; “it is a pleasure to be able to do anything for children.”
And as he mounted he said to Miss Elliott, “I’ve fixed it, I think.”
“Fixed her hip?”
“No; arranged for her to go to New York. They do that sort of thing there. I see no reason why the child should not walk.”
“Oh, do you think so?” she exclaimed, softly. “You make me very happy, Mr. Burleson.”