American essays; Short stories, American; Western stories
No lover could have pleaded more earnestly. All her objections were
overruled, and when at last she said, almost breathlessly, "Oh, but his
_mother_, George!" he answered, with all his honest heart: "It's my firm
belief, Miss Hetty, that you were cut out for a real hero-ine; and a
hero-ine you've got to be to the end of the chapter--which I don't say
but the last trial of your hero-ism will be greater than the first."
And sure enough, on New-Year's eve, came the rumbling of wheels and the
tramp of horses' hoofs close up to the veranda of the ranch-house on the
Yedral. None of the inmates seemed startled, though none had expected
company. Without a word Father Sutton sprang to the door--alas! that the
old man was swifter of foot now than the young giant of a year
ago--caught the lithe figure that sprang from the stage in his arms and
set her down, as Frank had done, in the middle of the room. But she was
not cold, dripping wet now, only blinded by the light one moment, and
the next on her knees by the lounge, where a pale, haggard man lay
stretched. He half raised himself to catch her in his arms, and for a
wonder did not sink back with the moan that had become so painful to his
father's ears. For once Hetty had cast aside all timidity, and she
looked up brightly into Father Sutton's face, while one arm circled
Frank's neck and the other hand lay unresistingly in his.
"Hey!" shouted the old man; "now we know whose gal you are; I used to
call you mine once. Mother, get some supper; I reckon she is wellnigh
starved and perished with the cold. Lively, Johnny! bring some more
wood; Hetty'll stay for good, and you'll get time enough to hang 'round
the gal to-morrow."
And what a bright to-morrow it was! Such a New-Year's day had never
dawned on Yedral Ranch before. Every one seemed to have found a
treasure, even to Mrs. Sutton. Together with Hetty's trunk had come a
large, promising-looking box, and when Father Sutton presented this to
his better-half, she almost screamed--
"Oh, I know! it's my new fur sack!"
_A WOMAN'S TREACHERY._
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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