ate
itself to the great horse under him. All he knew was that the glory of
the day was all about him, and, beside him, Joan was riding the
Padre's sturdy horse.

The girl at his side was no less uplifted. At the moment shadows
troubled her not at all. They were gone, merged into soft, hazy gauzes
through which peeped the scenes of life as she desired life to be, and
every picture was rose-tinted with the wonderful light of an evening
sun.

Her fair young face was radiant; a wonderful happiness shone in the
violet depths of her eyes. Her sweet lips were parted, displaying her
even, white teeth, and her whole expression was much that of a child
who, for the first time, opens its eyes to the real joy of living.
Every now and again she drew a deep, long sigh of content and
enjoyment.

For a while they rode in silence, their bodies swaying easily to the
rhythmic gait of the horses. Their direction lay toward the sun, that
direction which ever makes for hope. Ahead of them, and behind them,
lay the forest of tall, garbless trunks, their foliage-crowned,
disheveled heads nodding in the light breezes from the hilltops, which
left the lower atmosphere undisturbed. The scented air, pungent with
pleasant odors, swept them by as their horses loped easily along. It
was a moment of perfect peace, a moment when life could hold no
shadows.

But such feelings are only for the silent moments of perfect
companionship. The spoken word, which indexes thought, robs them of
half their charm and beauty. The girl felt something of this as the
calm voice of her companion broke the wonderful spell.

"That feller's shaping well," he said, his thoughts for the moment
evidently upon the practical side of her comfort.

The girl nodded. That look of rapturous joy had left her, and she too
became practical.

"I think so--when Mrs. Ransford leaves him alone," she said, with a
little laugh. "She declares it is always necessary to harass a 'hired'
man from daylight to dark. If I were he I'd get out into the pastures,
or hay sloughs, or forest, or somewhere, and stay there till she'd
gone to bed. Really, Buck, she's a terrible woman."

In the growing weeks of companionship Joan had learned to use this
man's name as familiarly as though she had known him all her life. It
would have seemed absurd to call him anything but Buck now. Besides,
she liked doing so. The name fitted him. "Buck;" it suggested to
her--spirit, independence, courage, everyth