"He doesn't believe his stories would interest vain young ladies," said
Kathlyn gravely.

Her father eyed her sharply. Of what was she thinking? In those calm
unwavering eyes of hers he saw a question, and he feared in his soul
she might voice it. He could evade the questions of the volatile
Winnie, but there was no getting by Kathlyn with evasions. Frowning,
he replaced the order in the box, which he put away in a drawer. It
was all arrant nonsense, anyhow; nothing could possibly happen; if
there did, he would feel certain that he no longer dwelt in a real
workaday world. The idle whim of a sardonic old man; nothing more than
that.

"Father, is the king dead?"

"Dead! What makes you ask that, Kit?"

"The past tense; you said he was, not is."

"Yes, he's dead, and the news came this morning. Hence, the yarn."

"Will there be any danger in returning?"

"My girl, whenever I pack my luggage there is danger. A cartridge may
stick; a man may stumble; a man you rely on may fail you. As for that,
there's always danger. It's the penalty of being alive."

On the way to the dining-room Kathlyn thought deeply. Why had her
father asked them if they loved him? Why did he speak of the Big Trek?