“Aw no, not that bad,” declared Anderson, and there was a red streak in the dark where evidently he waved his cigar in quick, decisive action.  “It’ll only be tough on him an’ sort of embarrassin’ for me—­an’ you.  That boy’s proud....  I’ll bet he raised hell among them I.W.W.’s, if he got to them.”  And Anderson chuckled with the delight he always felt in the Western appreciation of summary violence justly dealt.

Lenore felt the rising tide of her anger.  She was her father’s daughter, yet always had been slow to wrath.  That was her mother’s softness and gentleness tempering the hard spirit of her father.  But now her blood ran hot, beating and bursting about her throat and temples.  And there was a leap and quiver to her body.

“Dastards!  Father, those foreign I.W.W. devils should be shot!” she cried, passionately.  “To ruin those poor, heroic farmers!  To ruin that—­that boy!  It’s a crime!  And, oh, to burn his beautiful field of wheat—­with all his hopes!  Oh, what shall I call that!”

“Wal, lass, I reckon it’d take stronger speech than any you know,” responded Anderson.  “An’ I’m usin’ that same.”

Lenore sat there trembling, with hot tears running down her cheeks, with her fists clenched so tight that her nails cut into her palms.  Rage only proved to her how impotent she was to avert catastrophe.  How bitter and black were some trials!  She shrank with a sense of acute pain at thought of the despair there must be in the soul of Kurt Dorn.

“Lenore,” began Anderson, slowly—­his tone was stronger, vibrant with feeling—­“you love this young Dorn!”

A tumultuous shock shifted Lenore’s emotions.  She quivered as before, but this was a long, shuddering thrill shot over her by that spoken affirmation.  What she had whispered shyly and fearfully to herself when alone and hidden—­what had seemed a wonderful and forbidden secret—­her father had spoken out.  Lenore gasped.  Her anger fled as it had never been.  Even in the dark she hid her face and tried to grasp the wild, whirling thoughts and emotions now storming her.  He had not asked.  He had affirmed.  He knew.  She could not deceive him even if she would.  And then for a moment she was weak, at the mercy of contending tides.

“Sure I seen he was in love with you,” Anderson was saying.  “Seen that right off, an’ I reckon I’d not thought much of him if he hadn’t been....  But I wasn’t sure of you till the day Dorn saved you from Ruenke an’ fetched you back.  Then I seen.  An’ I’ve been waitin’ for you to tell me.”

“There’s—­nothing—­to tell,” faltered Lenore.

“I reckon there is,” he replied.  Leaning over, he threw his cigar out of the window and took hold of her.

Lenore had never felt him so impelling.  She was not proof against the strong, warm pressure of his hand.  She felt in its clasp, as she had when a little girl, a great and sure safety.  It drew her irresistibly.  She crept into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder, and she had a feeling that if she could not relieve her heart it would burst.