m. He is such a good, kind creature.
He is loved and respected by every soul in the place. He is so wise,
too,--he is quite wonderful. You know, he only sold his farm to me to
keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sort
of foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a little
boy--picked him up on the trail-side. That's about twenty years ago,
soon after the Padre--that's what they call him--first came here."

"Yes, yes; but his name?"

Mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh
young mind of the girl.

"Moreton Kenyon."

The eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl's face.

"Moreton--who?"

"Kenyon."

Mercy sat up in her chair. Her whole figure was poised alertly. Her
eyes were no longer uninterested. She was stirred to swift mental
activity. She knew that the web was readjusting itself. The portion
she had been seeking to place was finding its own position.

"He has a head of thick white hair. He has gray eyes, darkly fringed.
He is a man of something over fifty. His shoulders are massive. His
limbs sturdy and powerful."

Mercy detailed her description of the man in sharp, jerky sentences,
each one definite and pointed. She spoke with the certainty of
conviction. She was not questioning.

Joan's surprise found vent in a wondering interrogation.

"Then, you have seen him? You know him?"

Her aunt laughed. It was a painful, hideous laugh, suggesting every
hateful feeling rather than mirth. Joan was shocked, and vaguely
wondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh.

"Know him? Yes, I know him." The laugh was gone and a terrible look
had suddenly replaced the granite hardness of her eyes. "I have known
him all my life. I saw him only to-day, in the hills. He knew me. Oh,
yes, he knew me, and I knew him. We have reason to know each other.
But his name is not Moreton Kenyon. It is--Moreton Bucklaw."

Joan's wonder gave place to alarm as the other's venomous manner
increased. The look in her eyes she recognized as the look she had
seen in the woman's eyes when she had first listened to the story of
her childhood.

"Moreton Bucklaw?"

"Yes, Moreton Bucklaw," her aunt cried, with sudden vehemence, which
seemed to grow with every word she spoke. "Moreton Bucklaw. Do you
understand? No, of course you don't. So this is your paragon of
goodness and wisdom. This is the man who has told you that your
fate only exists in distorted fan