Colina was still incredulous.

“Look what he wrote me this morning!” she cried.  “It sounds so genuine.”

She handed him a note from the desk.  He read: 

DEAR MISS COLINA: 

They are saying that your father has been taken ill; that the doctor has been with him all night.  I am more distressed than I can tell you.  You know what he is to me!  Do send me some word.  He was so cheerful and well yesterday that I cannot believe it can be serious.  Native gossip always magnifies everything.

If it is all right to speak to him about business, will you remind him that a deputation from the farmers is due at the store this morning to receive his final answer as to the price of wheat this year.  As far as I know his intention is to offer one-fifty a bushel, but something may have come up to cause him to change his mind.  Unless he is very ill, I would rather not take this responsibility upon myself.

Do let me have word from you.

G.S.

“Anybody can write letters,” said Ambrose.  “It sounds to me as if he was just trying to find out how bad your father is.  He could easily put the farmers off.”

“I can’t believe he’s as bad as you say,” said Colina gravely.  “Why, he was here long before I was born.  But I will be prudent.  With your help I’ll try to run things myself.”

Ambrose sent her a grateful glance—­shot with apprehension.  He dreaded what was still to come.

“This question of the price of the wheat,” Colina went on; “we have to give him an answer or confess father is very ill.”

Ambrose nodded gloomily.

“Fortunately that is easy,” she continued; “for he spoke about it at dinner last night.  He means to pay one-fifty.”  She moved toward the desk.  “I’ll send a note over at once.”

The critical moment had arrived—­even more swiftly than he feared.  He could not think clearly, for the pain he felt.

“Ah, Colina, I love you!” he cried involuntarily.

She paused and smiled over her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, surprised and gentle.  “That’s why you’re here.”

“I’ve got to advise you honestly,” he cried, “no matter what trouble it makes.”

“Of course,” she said.  “What’s the matter, Ambrose?”

“You should offer them one-seventy-five for their wheat.”

The eyebrows went up again.  “Why?”

“It’s only fair.  Two dollars would be fairer.”

“But father said one-fifty.”

“Your father is wrong in this instance.”

Colina frowned ominously.

“How do you know?” she demanded.

“I know the price of flour at the different posts,” he said deprecatingly.  “I know the risks that must be allowed for and the fair profit one expects.”

“Do you mean to say that father is unfair?” she cried.