worst fears.
She was torturing herself.

Bud's dissimulation was never great. Nan watched the play of his
expression. There was no smile. As the silent moments passed his brow
became heavier. The furrow deepened between his eyes, and once there
came that rather helpless raising of his hand to his forehead. Then,
too, she observed the compression of his lips, and the occasional
dilation of his nostrils. Each observation carried conviction, and the
weight upon her heart grew almost insupportable.

Finally he laid the letter down and went on with his meal. But he did
not even glance at the wrappered newspaper.

In self-defense Nan was forced to break the silence. If it had
remained she felt she must scream. Instead she smiled over at him, and
indicated the newspaper.

"The _Calthorpe Times_, isn't it?" she said without a tremor.

"Can't say."

The harsh tone was intended to convey indifference.

"Won't you open it?" she asked. "Maybe Jeff's marked a piece."

Then Bud gave a display such as Nan had never witnessed in him before.

"Say, ain't we never to get food a feller ken eat?" he cried. "That
nigger slut needs firin' right away. Guess she couldn't cook a dry
hash on a round-up. I'm quittin'. This stew 'ud choke a she-wolf."

His eyes were hot. He thrust his plate away from him and pushed back
his chair. But Nan's calmness defeated his almost childlike subterfuge.

"Say, my Daddy, you don't need to quit. Sure," she added, a pathetic
smile lighting her brown eyes, "I guess the stew's pretty good to any
hungry folks, and Maimie's just the dandiest cook anywhere around."

She paused. Bud stood yearning for five minutes of unrestrained
blasphemy as he read the understanding lying behind her words.

"I don't guess it's the food worrying, or Maimie's cooking," Nan went
on, almost at once. "It's your letter. Maybe there's a heap of things
in it you aren't yearning to hand over to me." A sigh escaped her.
"Will I tell you of them? Maybe one'll be sufficient. It's the one
worrying you most. It's--it's his marriage. It's fixed. The date--I
mean."

Then she pointed at the unopened paper.

"Likely it's in that. And that's why he's sent it. Shall I see?"

She reached out and picked up the offending packet, and, with a swift
movement, ripped the fastening open with one finger. Without a word
she unfolded the sheet, seeking a marked passage. It was there, as she
knew it would be. It was