“You know I’m always glad to visit you, Baker,” he said.  “I wasn’t thinking of holding off on my own account, but I’ve got someone else to consider now, you know.  Ben—­”

“Certainly, certainly!” Scotty’s voice was eloquent of comprehension.  “Throw the kiddie in too.  He can play with Flossie; they’re about of an age, and she’ll be tickled to death to have him.”

Rankin looked at his friend a moment peculiarly.  “I know Ben’s going would be all right with you, Baker,” he explained at last, “but how about your wife?  Considering—­everything—­she might object.”

The smile left the Englishman’s face, and a look of perplexity took its place.

“By Jove!” he said, “you’re right!  I never thought of that.”  He shifted from one foot to the other uneasily.  “But, pshaw!  What’s the use of saying anything whatever about the boy’s connections?  He’s nothing but a youngster,—­and, besides, his mother’s actions are no fault of his.”

Rankin took his top-coat off its peg deliberately.

“All right,” he said.  “I’ll call Ben.”  At the door he paused, looking back, the peculiar expression again upon his face.  “As you say, the faults of Ben’s mother are not his faults, anyway.”

CHAPTER VI

THE SOIL AND THE SEED

Within the Baker home three persons, a woman and two men, were sitting beside a well-discussed table in the perfect content that follows a good meal.  Strange to say, in this frontier land, the men had cigars, and their smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling.  Intermittently, with the unconscious attitude of indifference we bestow upon happenings remote from our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the world, which the messenger from town, who supplied at stated intervals the family wants, had brought the day before.

Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, a small boy and a still smaller girl were engaged in the fascinating occupation of becoming acquainted.  The little girl was decidedly taking the initiative.

“How’s it come your name is Blair?” she asked, opening fire as soon as they were alone.

The boy pondered the question.  It had never occurred to him before.  Why should he be called Blair?  No adequate reason suggested itself.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said.  “Now, my papa’s name is Baker, and my name’s Florence Baker.  You ought to be Ben Rankin—­but you aren’t.”  She stroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger.  “It’s funny,” she repeated.

“Oh!” commented Benjamin.  He understood now, but explanations were not a part of his philosophy.  “Oh!” and the subject dropped.

“Let’s play duck on the rock,” suggested Florence.

The boy’s hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets.