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“Don’t try to speak, Mr. Starkweather,” said the visitor cheerfully; “I’ve made your daughter’s acquaintance already. We want you to give your entire attention to getting well, and let us do the talking.”

He went out of the room, and strolled about the place while the doctor made his call, and when it was over he went around to the kitchen, where Idy was kindling a fire, and said:–

“Doctor Patterson thinks your father will be all right in a day or so, Miss Starkweather. Be careful to keep him quiet. I’m going to drive around to the station, so the doctor can catch the evening train, and save my driving him down to Maravilla; and I’ll go on over to Elsmore and get this prescription filled, and bring the medicine back to you. Is there anything else you’d like from town–a piece of meat to make beef-tea, or anything?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind much if you would bring me a piece of beef,” said Idy, pausing with a stick of redwood kindling across her knee. Then she dropped it, and came forward. “We’re ever so much obliged to ye–pappy ‘n’ all of us. Seem ‘s if you always turn up. I think you’ve been just awful good and kind–an’ us strangers, too.”

“Oh, you’re not strangers,” laughed the young man, lifting his hat; “I’ve known your father ever since he came.”

He went around the house, and got into the cart with the doctor. “Starkweather’s a crank,” he said, as they drove off, “but he’s the kind of crank that makes you wish you were one yourself. When I see a man like that going off with consumption, and a lot of loafers getting so fat they crowd each other off the store boxes, I wonder what Providence is thinking of.”

“He works too hard,” growled the doctor, with the savagery of science. “What can Providence do with a man who grubs greasewood when he ought to be in bed!”

It was moonlight when the stranger returned, and handed the packages to Idy at the kitchen door.

“Pappy’s asleep,” she whispered, in answer to his inquiries; “he seems to be restin’ easy.”

“Is there no one about the place but yourself and mother, Miss Starkweather?”

Idy shook her head.

“Well, then, if you don’t mind, I think I will put my horse in the barn, and sleep in the shed here, on the hay. If you should need any one in the night, you can call me. I haven’t an idea but that your father will be all right, but it’s a little more comfortable to have some one within call.”

“Well,” said Idy, dropping her hands at her sides, and looking at him in admiring bewilderment, “if you ain’t just– Have you had anythin’ to eat?” she broke off, with sudden hospitality.

“Oh yes, thank you; I had dinner at Elsmore,” laughed the young man, backing out into the shadow. “Good-night.”

Half a minute later she followed him down the walk, carrying a heavy blanket over her arm. He had led his horse to the water-trough, and the moonlight shone full upon him as he stood with one arm thrown over the glossy creature’s neck.

“I brought you this here blanket, Mr.–“

“Barden,” supplied the young man, carelessly.

Idy sank back against the corral fence as if she were stunned.

“Barden!” she repeated helplessly. “Is your name Barden?”

“Yes.”

She stood breathless a moment, and then burst out:–

“An’ you’re him! you –an’ doin’ this way, after the way you’ve done–an’ him sick–an’ me talkin’ to ye–an’–an’–everything!”

The two torrents of hate and gratitude had met, and were whirling her about wildly.

The young man pushed his hat back on his head, and stared at her in sturdy, unflinching amazement.

“My dear young lady, what on earth do you mean?” he asked quietly.

“I mean that I didn’t know that you was him –the man that sold my father this place, an’ lied to him about the vineyard–told him they was raisin-grapes, an’ they wasn’t–an’ you knowed he was a temp’rance man, a prohibitionist. An’ him tryin’ to grub ’em out, an’ gettin’ sick–an’ bein’ so patient, an’ never hurtin’ nobody–” she ended in a wild, angry sob that seemed to swallow up her voice.