Sheila's hand obeyed rather unwillingly her irresolute, polite will.
Hudson's came quickly to meet it, spread it out flat in his own long
palm, and examined the small rigid surface.

"Well, now, Miss Sheila, I can read something there."

"What can you read?"

"You're goin' to be famous. You're goin' to make Millings famous. Girl,
you're goin' to be a picture that will live in the hearts of fellows and
keep 'em warm when they're herding winter nights. The thought of you is
goin' to keep 'em straight and pull 'em back here. You 're goin' to be
a--a sort of a beacon light."

He was holding her slim hand with its small, crushable bones in an
excited grip. He was bending forward, not looking at the palm, but at
her. Sheila pulled back, wincing a little.

"What do you mean, Mr. Hudson? How could I be all that?"

Sylvester let her go. He began to pace the room. He stopped and looked at
her, almost wistfully.

"You really think that I've been kind of nice to you?" he asked.

"Indeed, you have!"

"I'm not a happy man and I've got to be sort of distrustful. I haven't
got much faith in the thankfulness of people. I've got fooled too often."