"I think so, but not at once--not till after your trial--it would be
grossly ungrateful for me to go now. I shall wait till you are free."
His fine, clear, serious eyes were steadily fixed upon her face as she
said this, and she knew that he was extracting from every word and tone
their full meaning, and it frightened her a little.
At last he said, in a voice which was tense with emotion, "Then I hope I
shall never be free."
She hastened to lessen this tension. "The judge has promised to grant
you a hearing soon. Mr. Rawlins thinks it only a case for Justice Court,
anyway." She rose. "But let me see Mrs. Throop for a few minutes and
then we will go."
"Wait a moment," he pleaded, but she would not stay her course--she
dared not.
They found Mrs. Throop in the hall, discussing the interesting situation
with Rawlins, and when Helen extended her hand and began to thank her
again for her kindness, the matron cut her short. "Never mind that now.
I want you should all stay to supper."
Helen expressed regret and explained that it was necessary to return to
the bedside of her father, and so they managed to get away, although
Mrs. Throop followed them to the door, inviting them both to come again.
She saw no humor in this, though the men had their joke about it.
Rawlins discreetly dropped back into the office, and the two young
people passed on into the street.
"You must let me watch with your father to-night," Hanscom said. "I've
been a nurse--along with the rest of my experiences."
"If I need you I shall certainly call upon you, and if you need money
you must call upon me."
There was something warmer than friendship in her voice, but the ranger
was a timid man in any matter involving courtship, and he dared not
presume on anything so vague as the change of a tone or the quality of a
smile. Nevertheless he said:
"I cannot imagine how it happens that you are here in this rough
country, but I am glad you are. I shall be glad all my life--even if you
go away and forget me."
"I shall not forget you," she replied, "not for what you've done, but
for what you are." And in this declaration lay a profound significance
which the man seized and built upon.
"I am not even a forest ranger now. I am nothing but a dub--and
you--they say are rich--but some day I'm going to be something else. I
haven't any right--to ask anything of you--not a thing, but I must--I
can't think of you going entirely out of my life. I want you to let me
write to you. May I do that?"
Her answer was unexpected. "You once spoke of getting a transfer to a
forest near Denver. If you should do that, you might see me
occasionally--for I may make my home in Colorado Springs."
He stopped and they faced each other. "Does that mean that you _want_ me
to stay in the service?"