s, that he yielded to. He said very little, but he looked at
her often. And he had little periods of abstraction. The situation was
novel, strange to him. Sometimes Joan read his mind and sometimes he
was an enigma. But she divined when he was thinking what a picture she
looked there, on her knees before the bread-pan, with flour on her
arms; of the difference a girl brought into any place; of how strange it
seemed that this girl, instead of lying a limp and disheveled rag under
a tree, weeping and praying for home, made the best of a bad situation
and unproved it wonderfully by being a thoroughbred.

Presently they sat down, cross-legged, one on each side of the
tarpaulin, and began the meal. That was the strangest supper Joan ever
sat down to; it was like a dream where there was danger that tortured
her; but she knew she was dreaming and would soon wake up. Kells was
almost imperceptibly changing. The amiability of his face seemed to have
stiffened. The only time he addressed her was when he offered to help
her to more meat or bread or coffee. After the meal was finished he
would not let her wash the pans and pots, and attended to that himself.

Joan went to the seat by the tree, near the camp-fire. A purple twilight
was shadowing the canon. Far above, on the bold peak the last warmth of
the afterglow was fading. There was no wind, no sound, no movement. Joan
wondered where Jim Cleve was then. They had often sat in the twilight.
She felt an unreasonable resentment toward him, knowing she was to
blame, but blaming him for her plight. Then suddenly she thought of her
uncle, of home, of her kindly old aunt who always worried so about her.
Indeed, there was cause to worry. She felt sorrier for them than for
herself. And that broke her spirit momentarily. Forlorn, and with a wave
of sudden sorrow and dread and hopelessness, she dropped her head upon
her knees and covered her face. Tears were a relief. She forgot Kells
and the part she must play. But she remembered swiftly--at the rude
touch of his hand.

"Here! Are you crying?" he asked, roughly.

"Do you think I'm laughing?" Joan retorted. Her wet eyes, as she raised
them, were proof enough.

"Stop it."

"I can't help--but cry--a little. I was th--thinking of home--of those
who've been father and mother to me--since I was a baby. I wasn't
crying--for myself. But they--they'll be so miserable. They loved me
so."

"It won't help matters to cry."

Joan stood up the