ething----"

"It'll wear off; 'tis the strangeness of him, but three years will
bring him closer; it will wear away."

"It'll never wear away, because he isn't--he isn't _clean_!"

"Clean?" Tim repeated, turning in amazement as if to seek a witness to
such a preposterous charge. And again: "Clean? He's as fresh as a
daisy, as clean as a lamb."

"It's the way he seems to me," she insisted, with conviction that no
argument would shake. "I don't know any other name for it--you can see
it in his eyes."

"Three year here will brace him up, Joan; he'll come to you as fresh
as lumber out of the mill."

"No, all the wind in the world can't blow it out of him. I can't do
it, I'll never do it!"

"And me with my word passed to old Malcolm!" Tim seemed to grieve over
it, and the strong possibility of its repudiation; his face fell so
long, his voice so accusing, so low and sad.

"You'll not lose any money; you can square it up with him some way,
Dad."

"You've been the example of a dutiful child to me," Tim said, turning
to her, spreading his hands, the oil of blarney in his voice. "You've
took the work of a man off of my hands since you were twelve year old,
Joan."

"Yes, I have," Joan nodded, a shading of sadness for the lost years of
her girlhood in her tone. She did not turn to face him, her head high
that way, her chin up, her nose in the wind as if her assurance lay in
its warm scents, and her courage came on its caress.

"You've been the gerrel that's gone out in the storm and the bitter
blast to save the sheep, and stood by them when their poor souls shook
with the fright, and soothed down their panic and saved their lives.
You've been the gerrel that's worked the sheep over this range in rain
and shine, askin' me nothing, not a whimper or a complaint out of
ye--that's what you've been to me, Joan. It's been a hard life for a
lass, it's been a hard and a lonesome life."

Joan nodded, her head drooping just a little from its proud lift.
Tears were on her face; she turned it a bit to hide them from his
eyes.

"You mind the time, Joan, four years ago it was the winter past, when
you stood a full head shorter than you stand today, when the range was
snowed in, and the sheep was unable to break the crust that froze over
it, and was huddlin' in the canyons starving wi' the hunger that we
couldn't ease? Heh--ye mind that winter, Joan, gerrel?"

Joan nodded again, her chin trembling as it dropped nearer to the
f