"Because it's a good example of the first termination, I suppose,"
Mackenzie replied, his eyes measuring off the leagues with her own, as
if they together sought the door that opened out of that gray land
into romance that quiet summer afternoon.

"It was that way in the Spanish grammar," said Joan, shaking her head,
unconvinced by the reason he advanced. "There are plenty of words in
the first termination that are just as short. Why? You're the teacher;
you ought to know."

She said it banteringly, as if she dared him to give the reason. His
eyes came back from their distant groping, meeting hers with gentle
boldness. So for a little while he looked silently into her appealing
eyes, then turned away.

"Maybe, Joan, because it is the easiest lesson to learn and the
hardest to forget," he said.

Joan bent her gaze upon the ground, a flush tinting her brown face,
plucking at the grass with aimless fingers.

"Anyway, we've passed it," said she.

"No, it recurs all through the book; it's something that can't be left
out of it, any more than it can be left out of life. Well, it doesn't
need to trouble you and me."

"No; we could use some other word," said Joan, turning her face away.

"But mean the same, Joan. I had an old maid English teacher when I was
a boy who made us conjugate _to like_ instead of the more intimate and
tender word. Poor old soul! I hope it saved her feelings and eased her
regrets."

"Maybe she'd had a romance," said Joan.

"I hope so; there's at least one romance coming to every woman in this
world. If she misses it she's being cheated."

Mackenzie took up the Latin grammar, marking off her next lesson, and
piling it on with unsparing hand, too. Yet not in accord with Tim
Sullivan's advice; solely because his pupil was one of extraordinary
capacity. There was no such thing as discouraging Joan; she absorbed
learning and retained it, as the sandstone absorbs oil under the
pressure of the earth, holding it without wasting a drop until the day
it gladdens man in his exploration.

So with Joan. She was storing learning in the undefiled reservoir of
her mind, to be found like unexpected jewels by some hand in after
time. As she followed the sheep she carried her books; at night, long
after Charley had gone to sleep, she sat with them by the lantern
light in the sheep-wagon. Unspoiled by the diversions and distractions
which divide the mind of the city student, she acquired and held a
month's