uely. "This farm
was the Padre's. You never turned me out. An' say, the Padre don't
live a big ways from here. Maybe you'd like him to tell you about
cusses an' things." His eyes twinkled. "He's sure great on cusses."

But Joan did not respond to the lightness of his manner, and Buck
realized that her trouble was still strong upon her.

He waited anxiously, watching for the signs of her acceptance of his
invitation. But they were not forthcoming. The deep violet of her eyes
seemed to grow deeper with a weight of thought, and gradually the
man's hopes sank. He had wanted her to see his friend, he had wanted
his friend to see her. But more than all he had wanted to welcome her
to his own home. Nor was the reason of his desire clear even to
himself.

At last she rose from her seat and crossed over to the window, just as
the sound of voices heralded the return of Mrs. Ransford and the hired
man. It was at that moment she turned to him, speaking over her
shoulder.

"They've got back," she said. "What are you going to do?"

"Send those--others--on into camp."

"Yes." Joan shivered.

Then she came back to him, and stood with one hand resting on the
table.

"I--I think I should like to see the Padre. Will you take me to him
one day?"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE BRIDGING OF YEARS

It was nearly a week later that Joan paid her visit to the fur fort.

The Padre moved about the room a little uncertainly. Its plainness
troubled him, but its cleanliness was unquestionable. Both he and Buck
had spent over two hours, earlier in the day, setting the place to
rights and preparing for their visitor.

He shook his head as he viewed the primitive condition of the
furniture. It was all very, very home-made. There was not one seat he
felt to be suitable to offer to a lady. He was very dissatisfied.
Dissatisfied with it all, and particularly with Buck for bringing Joan
to this wretched mountain abode. It would have been far better had he
called at the farm. It even occurred to him now as curious that he had
never done so before.

Yet perhaps it was not so curious after all. He had been attached to
the home which had sheltered him all those years, the home his own two
hands had built. Yes, it was different making a place, building it,
driving every nail oneself, setting up every fence post, turning every
clod of soil. It was different to purchasing it, ready-made, or hiring
labor. He had no desire to go near the farm again.