He paused, not that her reply had baffled him, but the mere pleasure of hearing her speak accounted for it.  It was one of those low, light voices which are apt to have very little range or volume, and which break and tremble absurdly under any stress of emotion; and often they become shrill in a higher register; but inside conversational limits, if such a term may be used, there is no fiber so delightful, so purely musical.  Suppose the word “velvet” applied to a sound.  That voice came soothingly and delightfully upon the ear of Donnegan, from which the roar and rattle of the empty freight train had not quite departed.  He smiled at her.

“But,” he protested, “this is west of the Rockies—­and I don’t see any other way out.”

The girl, all this time, was studying him intently, a little sadly, he thought.  Now she shook her head, but there was more warmth in her voice.

“I’m sorry.  I can’t ask you to stay without first consulting my father.”

“Go ahead.  Ask him.”

She raised her hand a little; the thought seemed to bring her to the verge of trembling, as though he were asking a sacrilege.

“Why not?” he urged.

She did not answer, but, instead, her eyes sought the old, woman, as if to gain her interposition; she burst instantly into speech.

“Which there’s no good talking any more,” declared the ancient vixen.  “Are you wanting to make trouble for her with the colonel?  Be off, young man.  It ain’t the first time I’ve told you you’d get nowhere in this house!”

There was no possible answer left to Donnegan, and he did as usual the surprising thing.  He broke into laughter of such clear and ringing tone—­such infectious laughter—­that the old woman blinked in the midst of her wrath as though she were seeing a new man, and he saw the lips of the girl parted in wonder.

“My father is an invalid,” said the girl.  “And he lives by strict rules.  I could not break in on him at this time of the evening.”

“If that’s all”—­Donnegan actually began to mount the steps—­“I’ll go in and talk to your father myself.”

She had retired one pace as he began advancing, but as the import of what he said became clear to her she was rooted to one position by astonishment.

“Colonel Macon—­my father—­” she began.  Then:  “Do you really wish to see him?”

The hushed voice made Donnegan smile—­it was such a voice as one boy uses when he asks the other if he really dares enter the pasture of the red bull.  He chuckled again, and this time she smiled, and her eyes were widened, partly by fear of his purpose and partly from his nearness.  They seemed to be suddenly closer together.  As though they were on one side against a common enemy, and that enemy was her father.  The old woman was cackling sharply from the bottom of the stairs, and then bobbing in pursuit and calling on Donnegan to come back.  At length the girl raised her hand and silenced her with a gesture.