Steve grew very red.
"Who told you that?" he blurted, and Barbara giggled again.
"Mr. Ainnesley, I think. Then it is true? I--I never believed it
before."
Watching the blood creep up beneath his tanned skin, she told herself
that she did like more than a little the way his eyelids crinkled when
he grinned.
"We were in San Domingo that year," he explained none too composedly.
"It was near Christmas, and Joe wouldn't consider any of the native
wares as a gift. So he--he worked it himself in--in yellow worsted on
a red background. I have it still, displayed in a conspicuous place in
the shack up-river. But now I'll wager that you can't guess what the
motto is across its front. He told me that he didn't care for it
particularly himself, but it was the only one he could find. You can't
guess, but you are permitted to try."
And he gasped when she threw back her head and burst into her gurgling,
throaty laugh.
"'What is home without a father?'" she sing-songed. And when they were
both sober-faced again she added:
"I want to know him, please! Can't I meet him, Mr. O'Mara?"
Side by side they turned in at the millyard, between towering piles of
aromatic raw planks. Behind them Caleb and Allison had lost still more
ground while the latter paused to speak a peremptory word in the ear of
a mildly intoxicated, red-headed riverman who was pouring forth his
whole soul in the refrain of "Harrigan, That's Me!" And almost
immediately, in answer to Barbara's question, Steve pointed across to a
short, plump figure in conversation with McLean, the mill
superintendent.
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