“THERE WAS THAT IN BURLESON’S EYES THAT SOBERED HER”
At dinner, her father coming in on crutches, stared at his daughter—stared as though the apparition of his dead wife had risen to guide him to his chair; and his daughter laughed across the little table—she scarcely knew why—laughed at his surprise, at his little tribute to her beauty—laughed with the quick tears brimming in her eyes.
Then, after a silence, and thinking of her mother, she spoke of Burleson; and after a while of the coming journey, and their new luck which had come up with the new moon in September—a luck which had brought a purchaser for the mare, another for the land—all of it, swamp, timber, barrens—every rod, house, barn, garden, and stock.
Again leaning her bare elbows on the cloth, she asked her father who the man could be that desired such property. But her father shook his head, repeating the name, which was, I believe, Smith. And that, including the check, was all they had ever learned of this investor who had wanted what they did not want, in the nick of time.
“If he thinks there is gas or oil here he is to be pitied,” said her father. “I wrote him and warned him.”
“I think he replied that he knew his own business,” said the girl.
“I hope he does; the price is excessive—out of all reason. I trust he knows of something in the land that may justify his investment.”
After a moment she said, “Do you really think we may be able to buy a little place in Florida—a few orange-trees and a house?”