She was afraid to meet him. In the hour when they had talked over their decision she had begged him never to see her again, to put her out of his mind as though he had never met her. The fear lurked in the hinterland of her mind that perhaps he had done this. He had been a soldier, busy with the work given him to do, rising step by step by the force of his personality. Was it likely he still cherished the wild love, fruition of which had been denied them?
Mollie had always pushed far back into her secret consciousness the sweet memories of Scot that had persisted. It had been a matter of duty. Her code bound her to the view that she could not be the wife of one man, though in name only, and at the same time love another even in the secret recesses of her soul. Yet it was never hidden from her that she loved Scot. No power within her could change that. All she could do was to flog herself because of it.
And to-day he was coming back, covered with honour and glory. Was she going to meet a stranger or the ardent friend who had brought colour into her life?
Into the house burst a girl, shining in the radiance and clean strength of her young teens. She was slim and straight and dark, and in her eager face glowed a wonderful colour that came and went as the flame of her emotions quickened or died. With a whirlwind rush of her supple body she launched herself on her sister.
“Oh, Mollie—Mollie darling,” she cried. “It’s been the longest time since I saw you. What made you stay so long up in Virginia? And who did you see there? Tell me all about everything.”
A soft flame beat into the older sister’s cheeks. Victoria’s enthusiasm was always a tonic for her.
“I’ve had a letter from—from Colonel McClintock,” she said. “He expects to pass through Carson this morning.”
Vicky hugged her again. “Oh, goody, goody! Three whacking cheers for our colonel.” It was characteristic of her speech that stressed words stood out like telegraph poles on a railroad track.
“He’s not our colonel,” reproved Mollie gently.
“He’s mine,” answered Vicky. “Isn’t he my guardian? And doesn’t he send me the best present every Christmas? He likes you, too. Think I don’t know, Sis?”