She was saying: "Won't you speak to her now?"
A little pause. Then: "No, not until evenin'."
"Please, Dan."
"She's got to learn."
A little exclamation of unhappiness and then the door moved open; Vic found
himself looking up to the face with the golden hair which he remembered out
of his nightmare. She nodded to him cheerily.
"I'm so happy that you're better," she said. "Dan says that the fever is
nearly gone." She rested a large tray she carried on the foot of the bed
and Vic discovered, to his great content, that it was not hard to meet her
eyes. Usually girls embarrassed him, but he recognized so much of Joan in
the features of the mother that he felt well acquainted at once.
Motherhood, surely, sat as lightly on her shoulders as fatherhood did on
Dan Barry, yet he felt a great pity as he looked at her, this flowerlike
beauty lost in the rocks and snow with only one man near her. She was like
music played without an audience except senseless things.
"Yep, I'm a lot better," he answered, "but it sure makes me terrible sorry,
ma'am, that I got your little girl in trouble.
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