“Why—why didn't you tell me?” cried Bo, passionately. “What are they? Tell me now. You must think me a—a selfish, hateful cat.”
“Bo, I've had much to worry me—and the worst is yet to come,” replied Helen. Then she told Bo how complicated and bewildering was the management of a big ranch—when the owner was ill, testy, defective in memory, and hard as steel—when he had hoards of gold and notes, but could not or would not remember his obligations—when the neighbor ranchers had just claims—when cowboys and sheep-herders were discontented, and wrangled among themselves—when great herds of cattle and flocks of sheep had to be fed in winter—when supplies had to be continually freighted across a muddy desert and lastly, when an enemy rancher was slowly winning away the best hands with the end in view of deliberately taking over the property when the owner died. Then Helen told how she had only that day realized the extent of Carmichael's advice and help and labor—how, indeed, he had been a brother to her—how—
But at this juncture Bo buried her face in Helen's breast and began to cry wildly.
“I—I—don't want—to hear—any more,” she sobbed.
“Well, you've got to hear it,” replied Helen, inexorably “I want you to know how he's stood by me.”
“But I hate him.”
“Bo, I suspect that's not true.”
“I do—I do.”
“Well, you act and talk very strangely then.”
“Nell Rayner—are—you—you sticking up for that—that devil?”