“Lass, sight of you sort of makes me young agin—but—Allie, those are not the happy eyes I remember.”
“I—am very unhappy,” she whispered.
“Wal, if thet ain’t too bad! Shore it’s natural you’d be downhearted, losin’ Neale thet way.”
“It’s not all—that,” she murmured, and then she told him.
“Wal, wal!” ejaculated the trapper, stroking his beard in thoughtful sorrow. “But I reckon thet’s natural, too. You’re strange hyar, an’ thet story will hang over you.... Lass, with all due respect to your father, I reckon you’d better come back to me an’ Neale.”
“Did he tell you—to say that?” she whispered, tremulously.
“Lord, no!” ejaculated Slingerland.
“Does he—care—for me still?”
“Lass, he’s dyin’ fer you—an’ I never spoke a truer word.”
Allie shuddered close to him, blinded, stormed by an exquisite bitter-sweet fury of love. She seemed rising, uplifted, filled with rich, strong joy.