“I—­I believe I have heard of a Colonel Daniel Winston in Denver, a banker,” she said finally.  “I—­I have seen his house.”

“He is my father.”

Her shadowing lashes suddenly uplifted, the color once again flooding the clear cheeks.

“You are, indeed, becoming a man of mystery,” she exclaimed, affecting lightness of utterance.  “The son of Colonel Winston acting as utility for a troupe of strollers!  I can hardly believe it true.”

Winston laughed.

“It does seem a trifle out of proportion,” he confessed, “and I can hardly hope to make the situation entirely clear.  Yet I am not quite so unworthy my birthright as would appear upon the surface.  I will trust you with a portion of the story, at least, Miss Norvell.  I am by profession a mining engineer, and was sent out, perhaps a month ago, by a syndicate of Denver capitalists to examine thoroughly into some promising claims at Shell Rock.  I made the examination, completed and mailed my report, and finally, on the same day your company arrived there, I discovered myself in Rockton with nothing to do and several weeks of idleness on my hands.  I had intended returning to Denver, but a sudden temptation seized me to try the experiment of a week or two in wandering theatrical life.  I had always experienced a boyish hankering that way, and have a natural inclination to seek new experiences.  Albrecht was favorably impressed with my application, and hence I easily attained to my present exalted position upon the stage.”

“And is that all?”

“Not entirely; there yet remains a chapter to be added to my confessions.  I acknowledge I should have long since tired of the life and its hardships, had you not chanced to be a member of the same troupe.”

“I, Mr. Winston?  Why, we have scarcely spoken to each other until to-day.”

“True, yet I strenuously deny that it was my fault.  In fact, I had firmly determined that we should, and, having been a spoiled child, I am accustomed to having my own way.  This, perhaps, will partially account for my persistency and for my still being with ’The Heart of the World.’  But all else aside, I early became intensely interested in your work, Miss Norvell, instantly recognizing that it required no common degree of ability to yield dignity to so poor a thing as the play in which you appear.  I began to study you and your interpretation; I never tired of noting those little fresh touches with which you constantly succeeded in embellishing your lines and your ‘business,’ and how clearly your conception of character stood forth against the crude background of those mummers surrounding you.  It was a lesson in interpretative art to me, and one I never wearied of.  Then, I must likewise confess, something else occurred.”

He paused, looking aside at her, and, as though she felt the spell of that glance, she turned her own face, brightened by such earnest words of praise, their eyes meeting frankly.