that her cool self-possession might have been due to some instinctive
antagonism, for as she came a step forward with coldly and
clearly-opened gray eyes, he was vaguely conscious that she didn't like
him. Nevertheless, her manner was formally polite, even, as he fancied,
to the point of irony, as she began, in a voice that occasionally
dropped into the lazy Southern intonation, and a speech that easily
slipped at times into Southern dialect:--

"I sent the child out of the room, as I could see that his advances
were annoying to you, and a good deal, I reckon, because I knew your
reception of them was still more painful to him. It is quite natural, I
dare say, you should feel as you do, and I reckon consistent with your
attitude towards him. But you must make some allowance for the depth of
his feelings, and how he has looked forward to this meeting. When I
tell you that ever since he received your last letter, he and his
sister--until her illness kept her home--have gone every day when the
Pacific train was due to the station to meet you; that they have taken
literally as Gospel truth every word of your letter"--

"My letter?" interrupted Falloner.

The young girl's scarlet lip curled slightly. "I beg your pardon--I
should have said the letter you dictated. Of course it wasn't in your
handwriting--you had hurt your hand, you know," she added ironically.
"At all events, they believed it all--that you were coming at any
moment; they lived in that belief, and the poor things went to the
station with your photograph in their hands so that they might be the
first to recognize and greet you."

"With my photograph?" interrupted Falloner again.