“Yes, it seems no one else would come. Oakley was in Chicago when he first heard of the fire, and started immediately for Buckhorn, where he found the relief train. Oddly enough, he found his father there, too.”
“Then there was something to the old man, after all,” said Mrs. Emory, whose sympathies were as generous as they were easily aroused.
“A good deal, I should say. He must have known that he was coming back to arrest and almost certain conviction.”
Constance's glance searched her father's face. She wanted to hear more of Oakley. Her heart was hungering for news of this man who had risked his life to save them. All her lingering tenderness—the unwilling growth of many days—was sweeping away the barriers of her pride. “Mr. Oakley was not hurt?” she questioned, breathlessly, pale to the lips.
“He is pretty badly shaken up, and no wonder, but he will be all right in the morning.”
“Where is he now?” she asked.
Her father turned to her.
“Oakley—You look tired out, Constance. Do go to bed. I'll tell you all about it in the morning.”
“Where is he now, papa?” she questioned, going to his side and clasping her hands about his arm.
“Down at the shop. They carried his father there from the train.”