“That is a blessing. Well, good night, McKay. I shall see Loring in the morning.”
“Good night,” answered McKay, and he added under his breath: “I think I’d rather not be Loring in the morning. Too bad! Too bad!”
There was a light in Mr. Cameron’s house. As her father tramped up the steps Jean threw open the door and came towards him. Her hair fell in waves over her dressing-gown. The candle in her hand threw its light into eyes which asked an anxious question from beneath their arching brows.
“Father, what is the matter?” Jean exclaimed, as Mr. Cameron advanced.
“There has been an accident at Number Three hoist,” answered Mr. Cameron.
Jean drew a quick sharp breath. “Is Mr. Loring hurt?” she asked, bending forward to look into her father’s face.
Mr. Cameron looked at her hard. Then a grim humor glinted in his eyes as he answered: “Loring hurt? Well—not—exactly.”
Without a word Jean turned and led the way into the living-room, where the hastily lighted lamp flared high, leaving a smooch of smut on the chimney and casting bright reflections on the rough planks of the board wall. The girl walked calmly to the table and lowered the wick of the lamp. Then she tossed back the masses of her hair, and turning sharply to her father she uttered one word: “Well?”
“Well!” echoed Mr. Cameron, throwing himself into a chair by the fireplace. “Well! I should say that was a curious word to describe to-night’s doings.”