"Swearing is a terrible habit — isn't it?" she remarked calmly.
"It sure ain't polite," returned Rand.
"But there are worse habits."
"I reckon."
"Lying, for instance," she said, fixing him with a direct, unsmiling glance. "In my opinion there is nothing so vicious as lying."
"I expect lyin' is a bad habit, ma'am," he said. His brows were drawn together; there was a perplexed light in his eyes, and he watched her narrowly, for it seemed to him that she was obliquely striking at him.
"And yet you lied to me," she said.
"Why, I reckon, ma'am," he began. And then he saw the sarcastic gleam in her eyes. He stepped forward and stood close to her. And when he saw that she was not indignant — or that mirth was fighting with indignation for the mastery — he said, lowly and earnestly:
"Bud's been givin' me away!"
And then he turned from her — but not swiftly enough to conceal from her eyes the glee that was gleaming in his own.
She got up and turned her back to him, standing very rigid, her chin raised disdainfully. She felt that if she faced him he would see the pardon for his offense in her eyes, and she didn't want him to think that it could be so» easily given.
There followed a long silence; and then she heard Rand step close to her. His voice was low and serious, and there was a vibrant appeal in it that brought a fugitive smile to her face.
"I'm beggin' your pardon," he said.
She made no answer, merely shrugging her shoulders and keeping her face averted.
He cleared his throat. Flashing a glance at him, Miss Seddon saw that he was looking downward, his chin on his chest. He was sure he had offended her beyond pardon ; though in his mind at this minute was no blame for Bud — only a grim humor, and a curiosity to know what the boy had told her.
"As to Bud's cussin'—" he began, when she did not answer.
"The idea!" she interrupted. "Teaching a little boy to swear! Why did you do it?"
"Shucks!" he said; "I reckon I was sure a boxhead. But I couldn't think of any other way to get you to come over to the Three Bar "
"For shame!"
He stepped closer to her. "I didn't teach him a whole lot of it," he said. "Between the two of us — if we go about it earnestly — we can cure him mighty rapid."
"I detest a liar," she said.
His face paled; but of course she did not see it, for she still stood with her back to him. But she heard him move, and a blush suffused her face — for she was certain he was approaching her. And she was prepared to forgive him — in fact, she had never blamed him very much.
However, he was moving away from her. She heard his step grow fainter, and the color fled from her cheeks.
"Rand."
Her voice was soft, and it brought him to a halt before he had taken half a dozen steps.
He did not speak, looking wonderingly at her back.
"Of course," came her voice again, low and gentle; "there are liars — and liars."
"It wasn't such an awful crime," he said, hopefully.
"And if," she added, not seeming to know he had spoken; "there was a chance that a liar might reform —"
"I know one man who won't lie again!" he said.
"And would promise never to lie to me again —"
"I promise."
"Or teach Bud to lie —"
"I promise."
"Why, I might forgive him," she finished.
He was close to her by this time, his eyes alight with knowledge and aflame with a joy that made the girl's eyes droop when she saw them.
A little later, sitting on the fallen tree trunk — where, from his lofty concealment Lefty Morgan had seen them — Rand drew a great, long breath and patted the hand that lay so confidingly in his.
"An' you say you hearin' Bud swear wasn't what made you come to the Three Bar?" he asked — again.
"No," she smiled; "I should have come — anyway— because — because I wanted to."
He grinned — and patted the hand again.
"Well," he said, soberly; "I wasn't takin' any chances."
Chapter XXI. Striking Deep
DUSK had fallen when Miss Seddon returned to the Bar S. Her face was flushed, and her eyes eloquent with a light that had never been in tjiem before, when she turned Silver into the corral and carried the saddle and bridle into the lean-to near the stable, where she hung them from their accustomed peg.
She stood for a long time looking around her at the big world, enwrapped with the descending gloom, aware of a new beauty that had come into it all; her heart singing with the new-found joy that had come to her. She felt ineffably tender toward everything—and before she went to the house she walked over to the corral, called Silver to her, patted his neck — assuring him that he was responsible; that if he had not strayed that day when she had ridden him to the timber the first time, she would not have met Rand as she had met him — thus she might not have felt the romance that so completely surrounded him.
She went into the house after a while, to find that her father had not come in. The Mexican woman informed her that Seddon had ridden in during the afternoon, and had left word that he would be away for the night, with the outfit.
The girl ate very little, spending much of her time at the table gazing reflectively out through a window into the growing darkness. Many times she smiled at the recollection of Rand's strategem; but most of the time she was trying to analyze the new and strange emotions that had seized her.
When she left the table she went out upon the porch, where, in a big chair, she meditated long, mentally reviewing the incidents of the day — figuratively hugging them to her and enjoying them over again. She found she could not help applauding Rand's resourcefulness.
She heard the Mexican woman washing the dishes; she saw the light in the kitchen go out, and heard the woman clumping upstairs. Still, she did not stir out of the chair. Some time later, however, peering into the plains that stretched toward town, she observed a moving blot that seemed to be coming toward her out of the starlit gloom of distance, and she got up, to watch it.
She saw, after a while, that the blot had developed into a horse and rider, and she stepped to the edge of the porch, thinking the rider might be her father.
She was not certain until the horse and rider came near the porch; and then she noted with some curiosity that the rider was a woman.
She waited, saying nothing, until the woman dismounted, trailed the reins over the animal's head, and walked forward.
There was no moon, but the countless cold stars that dotted the sky sent a flickering semilight over the door-yard, enabling her to see the woman's face. And while she was intently peering at the visitor, the latter advanced to the porch edge and spoke.
"You are Eleanor Seddon?"
At Eleanor's low "Yes," the woman looked soberly at her. She was so near now that Eleanor could see her face clearly — it was white, almost pallid, and her eyes held a wistful, haunting expression.
Eleanor did not know that the pallor was artificial, and the expression of the eyes the cleverest bit of acting the woman had ever done. The girl merely divined that here was one of her sex in