SON OF THE WIND
His anxiety was less the coward's than it was the instinctive man's to shield the girl in her moment of what might have been her weakness from the severe eye of her own sex. He looked up. Mrs. Rader was standing close to him, leaning on the table, looking down at him with irresolute face.
"I am sorry I couldn't get word to you about last night," he said, rising, speaking as cheerfully as if this was the only question that could be between them. "I am afraid from what Mr. Rader said that not knowing when to expect me has inconvenienced you."
"Oh, no—not inconvenienced! Only we were afraid—" she raised her hand to the hat she wore, the man's hat, which probably she had hastily pulled on when she ran to her neighbors to ask news of him. "Mr. Carron—" she began.
"Never worry over a hunter, even if he doesn't show up for a week," he reassured her, setting the work-box back on the table. "The only thing to consider is what they bring back, and I offer my humble apologies for coming empty-handed." He swung around on his heel.
"Mr. Carron," she was just behind him. Her look was anything but the virago. It was timid, as if she were afraid of him, or else afraid of what she was about to say.
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