“Is it far now?” she asked wearily.
“Not more than seven miles I should judge. Are you about all in?”
“Oh, no! I'm all right, thank you,” she said, with forced sprightliness.
His shrewd, hard gaze went over her and knew better.
“You lie down under those live-oaks and I'll get some grub ready.”
“I'll cook lunch while you lie down. You must be tired walking so far through the sun,” said Miss Kinney.
“Have I got to pick you up again and carry you there?”
“No, you haven't. You keep your hands off me,” she flashed.
But nevertheless she betook herself to the shade of the live-oaks and lay down. When he went to call her for lunch he found her fast asleep with her head pillowed on her arm. She looked so haggard that he had not the heart to rouse her.
“Let her sleep. It will be the making of her. She's fair done. But ain't she plucky? And that spirited! Ready to fight so long as she can drag a foot. And her so sorter slim and delicate. Funny how she hangs onto her grudge against me. Sho! I hadn't ought to have kissed her, but I'll never tell her so.”