Jack Hamlin
made no reply. An audacity so supreme had conquered his. He walked to
the window, looked out upon the dark, rain-filmed pane that, however,
reflected no equal change in his own dark eyes, and then returned and
walked round the kitchen table. When he was at her back, without looking
at her, he reached out his hand, took her passive one that lay on the
table in his, grasped it heartily for a single moment, laid it gently
down, and returned around the table, where he again confronted her
cheerfully face to face.
"You'll make the riffle yet," he said quietly. "Just now I don't see
what I could do, or where I could chip in your little game; but if I DO,
or you do, count me in and let me know. You know where to write,--my old
address at Sacramento." He walked to the corner, took up his still wet
serape, threw it over his shoulders, and picked up his broad-brimmed
riding-hat.
"You're not going, Jack?" she said hesitatingly, as she rubbed her wet
eyes into a consciousness of his movements.
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