Instantly the knot of troopers fell apart, scattering out and spurring westward in diverging lines; the officer watched them until the last horse had disappeared, then he lazily sheathed his sabre, unbuckled a field glass, adjusted it, and seated himself on the grass beside her.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked pleasantly, setting the glass to his eye and carefully readjusting the lens.
“No.”
“Your father is living, is he not?”
She did not reply.
“I reckon Gilson’s command met him a piece back in the scrub, driving a wagon and a fine horse.”
She said nothing; her steady fingers worked the needles, and presently he heard her softly counting the stitches as she turned the heel.
“He said we’d find his ‘Cynthy’ here,” observed the youthful officer, lowering his glass. “Are you Cynthia Gray, ma’am?”
“He named me Cynthia,” she said, with a smile.
He plucked a blade of grass, and placing it between his white teeth, gazed at her so steadily that she dropped a stitch, recovered it, and presently he saw her lips resuming the silent count. He reseated himself on the grass, laying his field glass beside him.