ed, but a subtle something crept into their depths as she
surveyed it. It was the handsome, clean-cut face of a purposeful man.
There was a straight-forward directness in the gaze of his blue eyes.
It was the face of a man who has no fear, physical or moral. It was
almost too uncompromising in its fearlessness.

Nan knew its every line by heart. She had thought of it, dreamed of
it, since the time when she had first realized that a woman's life is
wholly incomplete without the care of a man upon her hands. Sometimes
she had felt that Jeffrey Masters possessed depths which could never be
fathomed. Depths of strength, of resource, and all those qualities
which make for success. Sometimes she even went further, when her
analytical faculties--which she possessed in an unusual degree--were
most active. She felt that the possession of all these firm qualities
had rather smothered, to an extent, the gentler emotions of the human
nature in him. He was strong, passionate, with a conscience of an
almost puritanical order, and somehow she felt that a little softening,
a little leavening of human weakness would have been all to the good.
But this understanding made no difference to her woman's regard, unless
it were to strengthen it to a sort of gentle worship such as woman is
always ready to yield to strength. It required no effort upon her part
to picture this man in the heroic mould of a Spartan warrior.

"'_That_,'" she replied, with a whimsical smile, "is a man, who most
generally seems to fancy his own way of doing things." Then she shook
her head as her arm slipped protectingly around the big man's bronzed
neck. "I don't guess a woman's argument ever made a man see things
different yet. What's he done, Jeff?"

Jeff laughed without humor.

"Done?" he exclaimed. Then, with a shake of the head: "It's not what
he's done. Guess it's what he hasn't done, and what he don't seem to
figure to do. I'd kind of raised a hope when I saw you in the window.
But--well, it was only her father's daughter that came in, I guess."

Then he drew his papers toward him again, and glanced seriously at the
figures.

"It's Nat's farm," he explained. "And it's the thing we've been
waiting on years. We're getting it fixed right, and your Bud's just
about as much help as a deaf mute at a talking bee. I hand him
figgers, and--and he smiles, just smiles. I hand him facts, and--he
keeps on smiling. It's the kind of smile you most g