“What’s burning, Bess?” called Henry West, as he stopped at the outside door of the kitchen, while passing. Bess was brought to earth with such a thud that she clutched at her heart to stop its pounding. Quickly she sprang to the oven and succeeded in partially concealing her confusion by peering into it just as West stepped into the room.
“Rather hot work, cooking, isn’t it?” he ventured, unsuspectingly, as the girl lifted her scarlet face to him.
“Dear me—it is nearly burned! I forgot—everything!” she said disconnectedly as she snatched the cake from the stove and placed it on the table.
“Oh! it’s hot!” she exclaimed, as she stuck her finger into her mouth; then looking at it she saw a large, white blister swelling upon the tender skin.
West saw at once that she had burned her hand and hastily applied some soda to relieve the pain. With tender care he wrapped it up, and when the smarting had ceased, told Bess he would help her to get the meal.
She was still ill at ease, and the incident of a few moments ago kept asserting itself in little spasms that would make her catch her breath. In her ears kept ringing the echo of Davis’ burning words, and she longed to flee to her room, to be alone, to think—to think—to cry. She surely would cry—she felt tears coming.
“Oh, Henry—I can’t stay—I want to go to—my—,” but by this time the floodgates of pent-up feelings had opened wide, and with tears streaming down her cheeks she fled to the silence and comfort of her own dear room.
“Poor little girl; she is nervous trying to do so much this morning,” soliloquized Henry, drawing off his coat and tying on a large apron. He then began to make preparations for the noon-day meal.
Just then, up the road leading to the house, drove one of the Indian police with a comfortable conveyance. By the time he could reach the porch, Davis, who had been watching the arrival, was already there dressed to go away.
“May I be of any service,” asked Henry West, with civility.