r mirth promptly sobering to a
broad smile.

She had almost forgotten her purpose so taken up was she in observing
this "scallawag," as Mrs. Ransford had called him. Nor did it take her
impressionable nature more than a second to decide that her worthy
housekeeper was something in the nature of a thoroughly stupid woman.
She liked the look of him. She liked his easy manner. More than all
she liked the confident look of his dark eyes and his sunburnt face,
so full of strength.

"Hayforks are cussed things anyway," the man said, flinging the
implement aside as though it had offended him.

Joan watched him. She was wondering how best to approach the questions
in her mind. Somehow they did not come as easily as she had
anticipated. It was one thing to make up her mind beforehand, and
another to put her decision into execution. He was certainly not the
rough, uncouth man she had expected to find. True, his language was
the language of the prairie, and his clothes, yes, they surely
belonged to his surroundings, but there was none of the uncleanness
about them she had anticipated.

It was his general manner, however, that affected her chiefly. How
tall and strong he was, and the wonderful sunburn on his clean-cut
face and massive arms! Then he had such an air of reserve. No, it was
not easy.

Finally, she decided to temporize, and wait for an opening. And in
that she knew in her heart she was yielding to weakness.

"My housekeeper tells me it was you who handed the farm over to her?"
she said interrogatively.

The man's eyes began to twinkle again.

"Was that your--housekeeper?" he inquired.

"Yes--Mrs. Ransford."

Joan felt even less at her ease confronted by those twinkling eyes.

"She's a--bright woman."

The man casually picked up a straw and began to chew it.

Joan saw that he was smiling broadly, and resented it. So she threw
all the dignity she could summon into her next question.

"Then you must be Mr. Moreton Kenyon!" she said.

The man shook his head.

"Wrong. That's the 'Padre,'" he announced curtly.

Joan forgot her resentment in her surprise.

"The 'Padre'! Why, I thought Mr. Kenyon was a farmer!"

The man nodded.

"So he is. You see folks call him Padre because he's a real good
feller," he explained. Then he added: "He's got white hair, too. A
whole heap of it. That sort o' clinched it."

The dark eyes had become quite serious again. There was even a tender
light in them as he searche