As Betty cantered into the open square in front of the house, her father and the foreman were getting out of the car. A chubby, flaxen-haired little lass came flying down the porch steps a-quiver with excited delight.
“Oh, Daddy, Daddy, what d’you fink? I went out to the barn an’—an’—an’ I fink Fifi’s got puppies, ’cause she—she—”
“Thought I told you to stay away from the barn,” the ranchman chided.
His harsh voice dried up the springs of the child’s enthusiasm. She drew back as though she had been struck. From the winsome, wee face the eager, bubbling delight vanished, the enchanting dimples fled. The blue eyes became wells of woe. A small finger found the corner of the Cupid’s-bow mouth.
Clint Reed, ashamed and angry at himself, turned away abruptly. Little Ruth was the sunshine of his life, the last pledge of his dead wife’s love, and he had deliberately and cruelly wounded her.
Swinging from the saddle, Betty ran to the porch. Her arms enfolded the child and drew her tenderly close. “Ruthie, tell big sister all about it,” she whispered gently.
“D-d-d-daddy—” the sobbing little girl began, and choked up.
“Daddy’s worried, dear. He didn’t mean to hurt your precious little feelings. Tell Betty about Fifi’s puppies, darling.”
Through her tears and between sobs Ruth told her great news. Presently she forgot to weep and was led to the scene of Fifi’s amazing and unique triumph. She gave little squeals of delight when Betty handed her a blind little creature to cuddle in spite of the indignant mother’s protesting growls. The child held the warm white-and-brown puppy close to her bosom and adored it with her eyes. With reluctance she returned it at last.
Ruth’s happiness was quite restored after her sister had given her a glass of milk and a cookie and sent her out to play.