Ben Blair

In common with her sisters everywhere, Florence had an instinctive love of a fad. Realizing this fact, Scotty was not in the least deceived when, during a lull at the dinner-table one evening late in the Fall, she broke in with an irrelevant though seemingly innocent remark.

"I saw several big jack-rabbits when I was out riding this morning." The dark eyes turned upon her father quizzically, humorously. "They seem to be very plentiful."

"Yes," said Scotty; "they always are in the Fall."

Florence ate for a moment in silence.

"Did you ever think how much sport we could have if we owned a couple of hounds?" she asked.

Scotty was silent; but Mollie threw up her hands in horror. "You don't really mean that you want any of those hungry-looking dogs around, do you, Flossie?" she protested pettishly. "Seems as though you'd be satisfied with riding the horses tomboy style without going to hunting rabbits that way."

The daughter's color heightened and the matter dropped; but Scotty knew the main attack was yet to come. He had learned from experience the methods of his daughter in attaining an object.

Later in the evening father and daughter were alone beside a well-shaded lamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie had retired early, complaining of a headache, and carrying with her an air of martyrdom even more pronounced than usual; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watching the door through which she had left, an expression of positive gloom formed over Scotty's thin face. Two strong young arms fell suddenly about his neck and abruptly changed his thoughts. A soft warm cheek was laid against his own.

"Poor old daddy!" whispered a caressing voice.

For a moment Scotty did not move; then, turning, he looked into the brown eyes. "Why?" he asked.

"Because,"--her voice was low, her answering look was steady,--"because it won't be but a little while until he'll have to move away--move back into civilization."

For a moment neither spoke; then, with a last pressure of her cheek against her father's, the girl crossed the room and took another chair. Scotty followed her with his eyes.

"Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked.

Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever-ready strip of rice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered it with the air of a peace-offering.

"No, I'm not against you; but it's got to come. Mamma simply can't change. She can't find anything here to interest her, and we've got to take her away--for good."

Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until the flame had burned well along the wood, then deliberately lit his cigarette and burned it to a stump.