"Sure I seen he was in love with you," Anderson was saying. "Seen that right off, an' I reckon I'd not thought much of him if he hadn't been.… But I wasn't sure of you till the day Dorn saved you from Ruenke an' fetched you back. Then I seen. An' I've been waitin' for you to tell me."
"There's—nothing—to tell," faltered Lenore.
"I reckon there is," he replied. Leaning over, he threw his cigar out of the window and took hold of her.
Lenore had never felt him so impelling. She was not proof against the strong, warm pressure of his hand. She felt in its clasp, as she had when a little girl, a great and sure safety. It drew her irresistibly. She crept into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder, and she had a feeling that if she could not relieve her heart it would burst.
"Oh, d—dad," she whispered, with a soft, hushed voice that broke tremulously at her lips, "I—I love him!… I do love him.… It's terrible!… I knew it—that last time you took me to his home—when he said he was going to war.… And, oh, now you know!"
Anderson held her tight against his broad breast that lifted her with its great heave. "Ah-huh! Reckon that's some relief. I wasn't so darn sure," said Anderson. "Has he spoken to you?"
"Spoken! What do you mean?"
"Has Dorn told you he loved you?"
Lenore lifted her face. If that confession of hers had been relief to her father it had been more so to her. What had seemed terrible began to feel natural. Still, she was all intense, vibrating, internally convulsed.
"Yes, he has," she replied, shyly. "But such a confession! He told it as if to explain what he thought was boldness on his part. He had fallen in love with me at first sight!… And then meeting me was too much for him. He wanted me to know. He was going away to war. He asked nothing.… He seemed to apologize for—for daring to love me. He asked nothing. And he has absolutely not the slightest idea I care for him."