The Wall Street Girl Part 47

Then she sprang to her feet and paced the floor, with the color gone from her cheeks. During all those glorious days this other girl had been in the background of his thoughts. It was for her he had been working--of her he had been thinking. She clenched her hands and faced the girl.

"Why didn't you stay home with him, then?" she cried. "You left him to me and I took care of him. He'd have lost his position if it hadn't been for me.

"I kept after him until he made good," she went on. "I saw that he came to work on time, I showed him what to learn. It was I, not you, that made him."

She was speaking out loud--fiercely. Suddenly she stopped. She raised her eyes to the window--to the little star by the Big Dipper. Gently, as a mother speaks, she said again:--

"I made him--not you."

Sally Winthrop sank into a chair. She began to cry--but softly now.

"You're mine, Don," she whispered. "You're mine because I took care of you."

A keen breeze from the mountains swept in upon her. She rose and stole across the hall to Mrs. Halliday's room. That good woman awoke with a start.

"What is it?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, I'm sorry if I woke you," answered the girl. "But it's turned cold, and I wondered if Don--if Mr. Pendleton had enough bedclothes."

"Laws sake," answered Mrs. Halliday. "I gave him two extra comforters, and if that ain't enough he deserves to freeze."

CHAPTER x.x.xI

SALLY DECIDES

The clarion call of Mrs. Halliday's big red rooster announcing fervently his discovery of a thin streak of silver light in the east brought Don to his elbow with a start. For a moment he could not place himself, and then, as he realized where he was and what this day meant for him, he took a long deep breath.

"In the morning," she had said.

Technically it was now morning, though his watch informed him that it was not yet five. By now, then, she had made her decision. Somewhere in this old house, perhaps within sound of his voice, she was waiting with the verdict that was to decide whether he was going back to New York the happiest or the unhappiest man in all Christendom. No, that was not quite right either. Even if she said "No" that would not decide it. It would mean only another day of waiting, because he was going to keep right on trying to make her understand--day after day, all summer and next winter and the next summer if necessary. He was going to do that because, if he ever let go of this hope, then he would be letting go of everything.

He found it quite impossible to sleep again and equally impossible to lie there awake. Jumping from bed he dressed, shaved, and went downstairs, giving Mrs. Halliday the start of her life when he came upon her as she was kindling the kitchen fire.

"Land sakes alive," she gasped, "I didn't expect to see you for a couple hours."

"I know it's early," he answered uncomfortably; "I don't suppose Sally is up?"

Mrs. Halliday touched a match to the kindling and put the stove covers back in place.

"There isn't anything lazy about Sally, but she generally does wait until the sun is up," she returned.

She filled the teakettle and then, adjusting her gla.s.ses, took a more critical look at Don.

"Wasn't ye warm enough last night?" she demanded.

"Plenty, thank you," he answered.

"Perhaps bein' in new surroundings bothered you," she suggested; "I can't ever sleep myself till I git used to a place."

"I slept like a log," he a.s.sured her.

"Is this the time ye ginerally git up in New York?"

"Not quite as early as this," he admitted. "But, you see, that rooster--"

"I see," she nodded. "And ye kind of hoped it might wake up Sally too?"

"I took a chance," he smiled.

"Well, now, as long as ye seem so anxious I'll tell ye something; maybe it did. Anyhow, I heard her movin' round afore I came down. Draw a chair up to the stove and make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks."

The dry heat from the burning wood was already warming the room.

Outside he heard the morning songs of the birds. It no longer seemed early to him. It was as though the world were fully awake, just because he knew now that Sally was awake. For a few minutes Mrs.

Halliday continued her tasks as though unmindful that he was about. It was such a sort of friendly acceptance of him as part of the household that he began to feel as much at home here as though it were his usual custom to appear at this hour. There was something more friendly about even Mrs. Halliday's back than about the faces of a great many people he knew. It looked as though it had borne a great many burdens, but having borne them st.u.r.dily was ready for more. It invited confidences. Then the teakettle began to bubble and sing and that invited confidences too. He was choking with things he wished to say--preferably to Sally herself, but if that were not possible, then Mrs. Halliday was certainly the next best confidante. Besides, being the closest relative of Sally's it was only fitting and proper that she should be told certain facts. Sooner or later she must know and now seemed a particularly opportune time. Don rose and moved his chair to attract her attention.

"Mrs. Halliday--" he began.

"Wal?" she replied, without turning. She was at that moment busy over the biscuit board.

"There's something I think I ought to tell you."

She turned instantly at that--turned, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.

"I--I've asked Sally to marry me," he confessed.

For a moment her thin, wrinkled face remained immobile. Then he saw a smile brighten the shrewd gray eyes.

"You don't say!" she answered. "I've been wonderin' just how long ye'd be tellin' me that."

"You knew? Sally told you?" he exclaimed.

"Not in so many words, as ye might say," she answered. "But laws sake, when a girl wakes me up to say she doesn't think a young man has blankets enough on his bed in this kind of weather--"

"She did that?" interrupted Don.

"Thet's jest what she did. But long afore thet you told me yourself."

"I?"

"Of course. It's jest oozin' out all over you."

She came nearer. For a second Don felt as though those gray eyes were boring into his soul.