The man’s face flushed a little, and there was once more evidence of the self-restraint.  “Yes,” he said simply.  “I know I was a fool.”

He might have said a good deal more, and lessened the effect, for Miss Deringham had seen his face and read the respect in it.  Its sincerity touched her, and she felt with a vague uneasiness that it would not be pleasant to face his contempt if he found it misplaced.

“And yet you take your father’s part?” he said.

“Of course,” said Alton simply.  “What would any son do?  But it seems to me there might be a little allowance for my grandfather, too, and I think he and my father have fixed up that quarrel long ago.”

“They are both dead,” said the girl with a little curiosity.

“Yes,” said Alton, “and they kept their word, and died unyielding.  Well, I think they were each right from their way of looking at the thing, and that being so they could only do what they did, and would respect each other for it when they meet where the long trail ends.  My father was right in holding to the woman who loved him, and I think Tristan Alton knew it when he left Carnaby to me.”

Miss Deringham seemed thoughtful.  The man’s grim code of honour, inflexible as it was primitive, caused her, for no apparent reason, indefinite misgivings, and she made a little gesture of weariness.  “I think,” she said, “it would be better if we did not talk of Carnaby, and I was wondering if it would be possible to catch a trout if there is a little more wind presently.”

This was scarcely a correct rendering of her thoughts, for she was in reality desirous of ascertaining whether the man would, to afford her pleasure, thrust his work aside.

“Well,” he said eagerly, “I shouldn’t wonder if it would.  Now, there’s the planer to fix up, but that could wait a little, and—­but here’s someone coming!”

Miss Deringham was conscious of a trace of annoyance when a girl rode out of the orchard on a wiry little pony.  She was dressed neatly and rode well, though the somewhat scanty skirt was evidently not the work of a habitmaker and had seen lengthy service, while the plain straw hat could not at the limit have cost more than a dollar; nor did she wear any gloves, and her hands were brown, while her face betokened exposure to frost and wind and sun.  It was, however, a comely face, and Miss Deringham noticed that the girl carried herself gracefully.  It was also curious that she was not wholly pleased when Alton went forward to greet the newcomer with his hat in his hand, and, she fancied, offered more assistance than was absolutely necessary in helping her down.  Then they entered the verandah together, and Alice Deringham smiled in a fashion which did not pledge her to any extreme good-will when Alton presented the stranger.

“Miss Townshead, from the ranch back yonder,” he said.

Miss Deringham said something of no importance, and waited with slightly unusual curiosity for the girl’s answer, which somewhat astonished her.  The voice was nicely modulated, and the intonation free from Western harshness and unmistakably English.