She was glad to get away from Mr. Windibrook’s “heartiness” and console herself with Mrs. Windibrook’s constitutional depression, which was partly the result of nervous dyspepsia and her husband’s boisterous cordiality.  “I suppose, dear, you are dreadfully anxious about your father when he is away from home?” she said to Cissy, with a sympathetic sigh.

Cissy, conscious of never having felt a moment’s anxiety, and accustomed to his absences, replied naively, “Why?”

“Oh,” responded Mrs. Windibrook, “on account of his great business responsibilities, you know; so much depends upon him.”

Again Cissy did not comprehend; she could not understand why this masterful man, her father, who was equal to her own and, it seemed, everybody’s needs, had any responsibility, or was not as infallible and constant as the sunshine or the air she breathed.  Without being his confidante, or even his associate, she had since her mother’s death no other experience; youthfully alive to the importance of their wealth, it seemed to her, however, only a natural result of being his daughter.  She smiled vaguely and a little impatiently.  They might have talked to her about herself; it was a little tiresome to always have to answer questions about her “popper.”  Nevertheless, she availed herself of Mrs. Windibrook’s invitation to go into the garden and see the new summerhouse that had been put up among the pines, and gradually diverted her hostess’s conversation into gossip of the town.  If it was somewhat lugubrious and hesitating, it was, however, a relief to Cissy, and bearing chiefly upon the vicissitudes of others, gave her the comforting glow of comparison.

Touching the complexion of the Secamp girls, Mrs. Windibrook attributed it to their great privations in the alkali desert.  “One day,” continued Mrs. Windibrook, “when their father was ill with fever and ague, they drove the cattle twenty miles to water through that dreadful poisonous dust, and when they got there their lips were cracked and bleeding and their eyelids like burning knives, and Mamie Secamp’s hair, which used to be a beautiful brown like your own, my dear, was bleached into a rusty yellow.”

“And they will wear colors that don’t suit them,” said Cissy impatiently.

“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Windibrook ambiguously; “I suppose they will have their reward.”

Nor was the young engineer discussed in a lighter vein.  “It pains me dreadfully to see that young man working with the common laborers and giving himself no rest, just because he says he wants to know exactly ‘how the thing is done’ and why the old works failed,” she remarked sadly.  “When Mr. Windibrook knew he was the son of Judge Masterton and had rich relations, he wished, of course, to be civil, but somehow young Masterton and he didn’t ‘hit off.’  Indeed, Mr. Windibrook was told that he had declared that the prosperity of Canada City was only a mushroom growth, and it seems too shocking to repeat, dear, but they say he said that the new church—­our church—­was simply using the Almighty as a big bluff to the other towns.  Of course, Mr. Windibrook couldn’t see him after that.  Why, he even said your father ought to send you to school somewhere, and not let you grow up in this half civilized place.”