Page:Caroline Lockhart--The Fighting Shepherdess.djvu/68



In the little room upstairs, where less than an our before she had dressed in happy excitement, Kate tore off the paper flowers and wild rose pods. She threw them in a heap on the floor — the cherished mitts, the bunting dress — while she sobbed in a child's abandonment, with the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. The music floating up the stairway and through the transom, the scuffling sound of sliding feet, added to her grief. She had wanted, oh, how she had wanted to dance!

The thought that Hughie had suffered humiliation because of her was little short of torture. But he had not deserted her — he had stuck — even in her misery she gloried in that — and how handsome he had looked! Why, there was not a man in the room that could compare with him! His clothes, the way he had borne himself, the something different about him which she could not analyze. It was a woman's pride that shone in her swollen red-lidded eyes as she told herself this, while she pinned on her shabby Stetson in trembling haste, buckled the spurs on her boots and snatched up her ugly mackinaw.

Hugh was waiting for her in the office below. The horses were tied to the hitching rack. Kate gulped down the lump that rose in her throat as she swung into the saddle. The orchestra was playing the " Blue Danube," and she especially loved that waltz. The strains followed them up the street, and tears she could