He
had never seen tears in her eyes before. She had been gay and sullen
and tense and sad, but now she was transfigured with some emotion he
could not follow. Her eyes were soft and dark, and her pale face, sad
and sweet, was instinct with the tenderness of her coming maternity. The
sturdy plainsman thrilled with unutterable pity as he looked down upon
her.
There was a silence, and then Rivers came to Bailey's side, and said,
brokenly,
"Rob, old man, you've done me good--you always _have_ done me good--I'll
be faithful to her, so help me God!"
Bailey understood him, and shook his hand. They stood for a moment, palm
to palm, as if this were in some sense a marriage ceremony. Bailey broke
the tension by saying:
"Well, now get your team--I wouldn't let you take her out into the cold
only I know she ought to be where a doctor can be reached. The quicker
you go the better."
While Rivers was gone he turned to her and helped her with her cloak and
shawl. His heart went out toward her with a brother's love. He talked
with cheerful irrelevancy and bustled about, heating a bowlder for her
feet and warming her overshoes.
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