There were no
half measures in this child of the prairie. Her love was given, a
wealth of generous feeling and loyal self-sacrifice. Her father read
with a rare understanding. And in his big heart, so rough, so warm, he
cursed with every forceful epithet of his vocabulary the folly of the
man he had marked out for a son.
"We'll make good, or--bust," he said, with a warmth that almost matched
the girl's.
Then he pointed ahead where the hollow opened out, and a large clump of
trees marked dividing ways.
"I guessed you'd best see this. It's one o' them notions o' Jeff's.
That play ain't worth a cent."
"Ah!"
They rode up to the bluff in silence. And after a moment's search Bud
drew rein before a heavy tree trunk, to which was secured a printed
sheet. He pointed at it, and, for a while, neither spoke. Nan was
taking in the disfigurements with which it was covered, and she read
the words written across it in bold but illiterate characters:
"We're wise to her. She don't git no second chanst."
The rest of the disfigurings were mischievous, and of almost indecent
character.
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