SON OF THE WIND
"Mrs. Rader has?" Carron had become an echo of astonishment.
"Yes," the scholar sighed, and added, "She kept me awake quite a little last night, fussing about it."
Taken aback, flattered, touched, Carron hadn't yet heard the name he most wanted. If Mrs. Rader had fussed, he wondered what Blanche had done.
"You are all right, aren't you?" Rader continued, his manner slowing a little from the unwonted vivacity of excitement. "What is that around your head?"
"I cut myself up in the rocks and then got into the mud. It's nothing at all."
"Ah! well," the scholar surveyed him with an almost affectionate glance, "the women will fix you up. They'll love to." He hesitated, lowered his voice, leaning forward, "You didn't—" The rest of the query was in his eyes. It spoke of the secret that was theirs, between them.
Carron smiled rather grimly. "No, I—" he began.
He stopped, because a door had opened suddenly. Not the one fronting the steps, but one farther down the porch, opening direct out of the livingroom. Blanche Rader stood there. She had taken the step down from the high threshold, but one foot still rested upon it, one hand still clasped the frame
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