CHAPTER XXIII
For two fleeting days Lenore Anderson was happy when she forgot, miserable when she remembered. Then the third morning dawned.
At the breakfast-table her father had said, cheerily, to Dorn: "Better take off your coat an' come out to the fields. We've got some job to harvest that wheat with only half-force.… But, by George! my trouble's over."
Dorn looked suddenly blank, as if Anderson's cheery words had recalled him to the realities of life. He made an incoherent excuse and left the table.
"Ah-huh!" Anderson's characteristic exclamation might have meant little or much. "Lenore, what ails the boy?"
"Nothing that I know of. He has been as—as happy as I am," she replied.
"Then it's all settled?"
"Father, I—I—"
Kathleen's high, shrill, gleeful voice cut in: "Sure it's settled! Look at Lenorry blush!"
Lenore indeed felt the blood stinging face and neck. Nevertheless, she laughed.