"Because it is," young Mackay replied with finality.

"How many brothers and sisters have you?"

"There's just father, and Jean and Turkey and me."

"'Turkey'!" she exclaimed. "What a funny name! Is it a boy or a girl?"

"His real name is Torquil," young Angus explained, "after my
grandfather. He's just a kid, like you. What is your own name?"

"I am Faith Winton."

"Faith Winton French?"

"No, just Winton. Uncle Godfrey isn't really my uncle. That is, he is my
mother's uncle by marriage. My mother is dead, too. My father is Sewell
Winton."

She stated the fact proudly; but the boy was unimpressed.

"What does your father do for a living?" he asked.

"My father is a great artist."

"Is that so," said young Mackay. "You mean he paints pictures?"

"Of course he does--great pictures. But I suppose, living here, you've
never seen them." Her tone expressed pity.

"I've never seen painted pictures that looked like anything at all,"
Angus Mackay returned with contempt. "There was a teacher at our school
that painted things, but you could not tell what it was all about. She
would paint what she would call a cow, but it would look like a horse,
all but the horns, and a poor horse, too. Has your father come here to
paint?"

"No, he isn't well. He thought the change might do him good, but it
doesn't seem to. We are going away in a few days."

But young Mackay was not interested in the painter's health, nor was he
specially interested in the painter's daughter. His immediate object now
that she had finished the doughnuts was to get her off his hands. And so
he set a good pace toward his pony, saddled, shortened the stirrups and
helped the girl up. No longer restrained by her inability to keep up
with his stride, he struck a swift, swinging gait which was faster than
the pony's walk. He paid little or no attention to girl or pony. It was
their business to keep up with him. He led the way without hesitation,
around sloughs, down coulees, through timber. When they had been
traveling thus for an hour or more he stopped suddenly.

"Somebody is shouting," he said. "It will be your people looking for
you, likely. We will just wait here. You had better get down, for I am
going to shoot and he might not stand still."

He fired three shots close together, and after an interval three more.
Soon afterward they could hear a distant whoop. Mackay answered, and in
a few minutes the search party which had been strung out com