She crushed the roses to her breast and a shower of white petals fell to the floor. One fluttered against West’s hand, and he started as if a poisonous insect stung him.
Mrs. West quickly saw the girl’s deep confusion and came to her aid, remarking that the two were rather hasty in their congratulations, which, as yet, were most inopportune.
As Bess seated herself, she let the roses slide unheeded from her lap to the floor. Henry West stooped, lifted the now bruised and broken blossoms, and going into the living-room placed them upon the folded copy of Mon Desir, as gently and as reverently as if they were laid upon the silent breast of a lost and dead love.
[CHAPTER XVII]
BESS FLETCHER’S NEW GUN, AND ITS FIRST VICTIM
West was standing near a tall pine tree, fastening a small square of white paper against it with a pin. James stood near, holding a 38 Smith and Wesson in his hands. Bess stood back some fifteen yards with a 22-caliber repeating rifle rested across her left arm.
“She said she did, Henry,” said James as he lifted his eye-brows in a smile of incredulity.
“Yes, I did yesterday—hit the mark, not only three but four times, if you please.”
“Well, the test is at hand. You have to ‘show us’ Sister, before we can ‘deliver the goods.’”