et one she and the dog would be far away. Her mind worked fast
under the pressure.

"What do you want, Ben Letts?" she demanded.

"I just wanted to talk to yer," wheedled the man. "Come over the fence,
will ye?"

"Ye can talk to me here," sullenly replied Tess. "I don't want to hear
none of yer dum gab."

"It air somethin' nice--it air candy," feigned Ben. Then the tones
hardened in the coarse voice, and he ended:

"Ye can't stay always with the brute."

"To-night I can, and in the day I ain't afeared--I don't want no candy."

The brindle bulldog lifted his head again and sent a low snarl in the
direction of the fisherman--Ben in his rage had come too close to the
fence. The animal's warning sent him back. Months before, Pete had
buried his teeth in the man's hand and Ben would bear the marks to his
grave.

"Ye go home, Ben Letts," insisted Tess. "Ye ain't no business here. Go
home to yer mammy."

"I'm a-goin' to stay, just the same," rejoined Ben, sitting down upon
the tracks.

Tessibel wound her arms around the dog's neck, banking the red curls
under her cheek for a pillow. It was good to rest with her friend.
Between the fence wires she could see the branches of the pine tree, its
shadowy arms creating odd figures across the light streaks in the sky.
What a wonderful being the student's God was! He had listened to the cry
of a squatter and had saved her.

"Yer daddy ain't a-comin' home," Ben Letts broke in upon her
meditations.

"He air," retorted Tess. "He air the nextest time I go for him."

"It air a lie," insisted the fisherman, "ye comes with me to the
minister and I'll make yer an hones' woman. Ye'll have to cut that mop
and settle down like a woman should. Do ye hear?... Tessibel, I says an
hones' woman!"

Tessibel shifted her head from Pete's neck and sat up.

"Ye says as how--ye and--me--will go to the minister?"

"Yep."

"And we air to be--married ... eh?"

"Yep."

"How about--the--brat--and--and--and Satisfied's girl?"

Myra's secret had slipped from her. Ben's silence invited her to
proceed.

"Yer brat air sick to his grave, he air," said she mournfully, a tear
settling in her voice, making its sweetness rough, "and Myry air a-dyin'
of a broken heart.... If yer wants to make an hones' woman, make her
one, that air what I says, I does. And ye broke her arm on the ragged
rocks! Ye did! And then yer comes--and talks about bein' hones'," the
musical voice rose to a cry. "Ye can't