Buck's effort had its reward. The smile that had gradually found its way into his own eyes caught something of a reflection in those of the girl. He had dragged her from the depths of her despair by the force of the frank courage that was his. He had lifted her by the sheer strength and human honesty which lay at the foundation of his whole, simple nature. Joan sighed, and it was an acknowledgment of his success.
"Thank you, Buck," she said gently. "You are always so good to me. You have been so ever since I came. And goodness knows you have little enough reason for it, seeing it is I who have turned you out of this home of yours----"
"We got your money," interrupted Buck, almost brusquely. "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?"