“I—I shouldn't have asked that,” said Bo, softly, and then bent again over her book.
Helen gazed tenderly at that bright, bowed head. In this swift-flying, eventful, busy winter, during which the management of the ranch had devolved wholly upon Helen, the little sister had grown away from her. Bo had insisted upon her own free will and she had followed it, to the amusement of her uncle, to the concern of Helen, to the dismay and bewilderment of the faithful Mexican housekeeper, and to the undoing of all the young men on the ranch.
Helen had always been hoping and waiting for a favorable hour in which she might find this wilful sister once more susceptible to wise and loving influence. But while she hesitated to speak, slow footsteps and a jingle of spurs sounded without, and then came a timid knock. Bo looked up brightly and ran to open the door.
“Oh! It's only—YOU!” she uttered, in withering scorn, to the one who knocked.
Helen thought she could guess who that was.
“How are you-all?” asked a drawling voice.
“Well, Mister Carmichael, if that interests you—I'm quite ill,” replied Bo, freezingly.
“Ill! Aw no, now?”
“It's a fact. If I don't die right off I'll have to be taken back to Missouri,” said Bo, casually.
“Are you goin' to ask me in?” queried Carmichael, bluntly. “It's cold—an' I've got somethin' to say to—”