stirring within him as soon as they had passed through
the gate. "We will talk of this matter together, you and me and the
daughter."

Tavernake seemed, on his introduction to the household, like a man
unused to feminine society. Perhaps he did not expect to find such a
type of her sex as Ruth Nicholls in such a remote neighborhood. She was
thin, and her cheeks were paler than those of any of the other young
women whom he had seen about the village. Her eyes, too, were darker,
and her speech different. There was nothing about her which reminded him
in the least of the child with whom he had played. Tavernake watched
her intently. Presently the idea came to him that she, too, was seeking
shelter.

Supper was a simple meal, but it was well and deftly served. The girl
had the gift of moving noiselessly. She was quick without giving
the impression of haste. To their guest she was courteous, but her
recollection of him appeared to be slight, and his coming but a matter
of slight interest. After she had cleared the cloth, however, and
produced a jar of tobacco, her father bade her sit down with them.

"Mr. Tavernake," he began, ponderously, "is thinking some of settling
down in these parts, Ruth."

She inclined her head gravely.

"It appears," her father continued, "that he is sick and tired of the
city and of head-work. He is wishful to come into the yard with me, if
so be that we could find enough work for two."

The girl looked at their visitor, and for the first time there was a
measure of curiosity in her earnest gaze. Tavernake was, in his way,
good enough to look upon. He was well-built, his shoulders and physique
all spoke of strength. His features were firmly cut, although his
general expression was gloomy. But for a certain moroseness, an
uncouthness which he seemed to cultivate, he might even have been deemed
good-looking.

"Mr. Tavernake would make a great mistake," she said, hesitatingly. "It
is not well for those who have brains to work with their hands. It is
not a place for those to live who have been out in the world. At most
seasons of the year it is but a wilderness. Sometimes there is little
enough to do, even for father."

"I am not ambitious for over-much work or for over-much money, Miss
Nicholls," Tavernake replied. "I will be frank with you both. Things out
in the world there went ill with me; it was not my fault, but they went
ill with me. What ambitions I had are finished--for the present,