“Miss Longstreth, that's fine!” exclaimed Duane. “It's what I'd have—expected of you.”
It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face burned out in a beautiful blush.
“And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come,” added Duane. “Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night. Good-by.”
“Mr. Ranger, wait!” called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.
“I have wronged you,” she said, impulsively.
“Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?” he returned.
“I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see—I wronged you.”
“You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of wronging me. I have been a—a gunman, I am a ranger—and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others—sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”
“I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I—”
“Please—please don't, Miss Longstreth,” interrupted Duane.