Helen did not look up again until she was near the porch. She had dreaded this meeting, yet she was so glad that she could have cried aloud.
“Miss Helen, I shore am glad to see you,” he said, standing bareheaded before her, the same young, frank-faced cowboy she had seen first from the train.
“Tom!” she exclaimed, and offered her hands.
He wrung them hard while he looked at her. The swift woman's glance Helen gave in return seemed to drive something dark and doubtful out of her heart. This was the same boy she had known—whom she had liked so well—who had won her sister's love. Helen imagined facing him thus was like awakening from a vague nightmare of doubt. Carmichael's face was clean, fresh, young, with its healthy tan; it wore the old glad smile, cool, easy, and natural; his eyes were like Dale's—penetrating, clear as crystal, without a shadow. What had evil, drink, blood, to do with the real inherent nobility of this splendid specimen of Western hardihood? Wherever he had been, whatever he had done during that long absence, he had returned long separated from that wild and savage character she could now forget. Perhaps there would never again be call for it.
“How's my girl?” he asked, just as naturally as if he had been gone a few days on some errand of his employer's.
“Bo? Oh, she's well—fine. I—I rather think she'll be glad to see you,” replied Helen, warmly.
“An' how's thet big Indian, Dale?” he drawled.
“Well, too—I'm sure.”
“Reckon I got back heah in time to see you-all married?”
“I—I assure you I—no one around here has been married yet,” replied Helen, with a blush.