But she was
really more of a woman than I had thought her, and I thanked the Lord
she was game when I remembered what I had to tell her before I was
through.
"Dad and Hans Rutter, as you know, weren't the sort of men to sit around
and mourn over anything like that," she laughed. "I don't know where
they got the idea of going to Peace River. But dad settled me and Mammy
Thomas in a little cottage in Austin, and they started. I wanted to go
along, but dad wouldn't hear of it. They've been gone a little over two
years. I'd get word from them about every three months, and early this
spring dad wrote that they had made a good stake and were coming home.
He said I could come as far as Benton to meet them, and we would take
the boat from there down to St. Louis. So I looked up the lay of the
country, and sent him word I would come as far as Walsh. He had said
they would come out by way of this place. And then I rounded up Mammy
Thomas and struck out. I've rather enjoyed the trip, too. They should be
here any day, now."
My conscience importuned me to tell her bluntly that they would only
come into Walsh feet first. But I dodged the unpleasant opening. There
was another matter I wanted to touch upon first.
"Look here, Lyn," I said--rather dubiously, it must be confessed, for I
didn't know how she would take it, "I'm going to tell you something on
my own responsibility, and you mustn't get the idea that I'm trying to
mix into your personal affairs without a warrant.
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