A Frontier Knight: A Story of Early Texan Border-Life
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THE sun was shining gloriously across level sweeps of blue-grass meadow-land, and sending its beams through the windows of a plain, substantial, country house, where it made squares of brightness on the whitewashed walls, sharply outlining the shadows, and touching to gold the fair hair of a girl who sat motionless on a low stool near the window. She was thinking intently and did not heed the entrance of an older girl who glanced at her with a smile and began to busy herself about the room.
Finally the girl at the window gave a deep sigh and stretched her hands above her head. “Oh, is it dinner time, Christine?” she said.
“Very near,” was the reply. “What a brown study you were in, Alison; you must have been miles away.”
“And so I was. I must decide, you know.”
“Yes, I do know.” There was a serious note in Christine’s voice. “And have you decided?” she asked after a pause.
“Yes.” The girl arose and came to where her sister stood. She laid her hands on the shoulders of the other and looked steadfastly into the clear eyes. “I am going with you and John,” she said. “There are just the three of us, and I cannot be separated from you, even though I have this home for always, mine at Aunt Miranda’s death and all its comforts while I live here. I have thought it over. I have thought of the days which will go by all alike; everything just so, all cut and dried; up at such an hour every morning; hot rolls for breakfast on Wednesdays and Saturdays, cold bread on Mondays. Every chair set at exactly such an angle, Aunt Miranda always with her hair parted precisely, Uncle Brown with his whiskers curled in just such a fashion, never a hair out of place; never any excitement; once a month the minister and his wife to dinner; once a year a day in
