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Wayland, interrupting, caught at his father's hand and wrung it frenziedly. "I'm glad--"
"Here! Here!" A look of pain covered the father's face. "That's the fist she put in the press."
They all laughed at his joke, and then he gravely resumed. "I say I admire her, but it's a shame to ask such a girl to marry an invalid like you. Furthermore, I won't have her taken East. She'd bleach out and lose that grip in a year. I won't have her contaminated by the city." He mused deeply while looking at his son. "Would life on a wheat-ranch accessible to this hotel by motor-car be endurable to you?"
"You mean with Berea?"
"If she'll go. Mind you, I don't advise her to do it!" he added, interrupting his son's outcry. "I think she's taking all the chances." He turned to Mrs. McFarlane. "I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned in my notions of marriage, Mrs. McFarlane. I grew up when women were helpmates, such as, I judge, you've been. Of course, it's all guesswork to me at the moment; but I have an impression that my son has fallen into an unusual run of luck. As I understand it, you're all out for a pleasure trip. Now, my private car is over in the yards, and I suggest you all come along with me to California--"
"Governor, you're a wonder!" exclaimed Wayland.
"That'll give us time to get better acquainted, and if we all like one another just as well when we get back--well, we'll buy the best farm in the North Platte and--"
"It's a cinch we get that ranch," interrupted Wayland, with a triumphant glance at Berea.
"Don't be so sure of it!" replied the lumberman. "A private car, like a yacht, is a terrible test of friends.h.i.+p." But his warning held no terrors for the young lovers. They had entered upon certainties.
THE END
