aged to come off worst.

However, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid,
mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal
animosities to be wiped out at some future date.

But Buck's presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be
altogether missed. Nor was Beasley the man to let the moment pass
without availing himself of it. Buck's interest in Joan was something
to be played upon at all times. Therefore he drew him aside in a
manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it.

Buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly.

"Say," Beasley began, the moment they were out of ear-shot of the
rest, "guess you ain't bin around the farm lately--I mean this
afternoon?"

Buck looked him coldly in the eye.

"No--why?"

Beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. He pretended to be
annoyed at his coolness. He shrugged and turned away, speaking over
his shoulder as he went.

"Oh, nuthin'! Guess it might be as well if you had."

He went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade.
Buck looked after him for one doubting second. Then he too turned away
and went out to his horse.

CHAPTER XX

THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD

Joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little
farmyard warfare. Just now her life was running very smoothly, and the
shadows of memory were steadily receding. She had almost forgotten the
few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent
ugliness of Devil's Hill nearly a week ago. Since then nothing had
occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack
inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost
something of its power to disturb.

It was a curious scene. The farm was still, so still, in the glowing
afternoon heat. The cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves
with the succulent grass and dozing the long daylight hours away. The
"hired" man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie
land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. The hogs were
gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and cockerels were
amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in
that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of
effort for the sheer delight of being busy.

It was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which
very nearly approached her ideal.

Here, in one corner of