The first man remained thoughtful, and then glanced at Clarence’s sunburnt hands.  Presently his large, good-humored smile returned.

“Well, I suppose you are hungry?”

“Yes,” said Clarence shyly.  “But—­”

“But what?”

“I should like to wash myself a little,” he returned hesitatingly, thinking of the clean tent, the clean lady, and Susy’s ribbons.

“Certainly,” said his friend, with a pleased look.  “Come with me.”  Instead of leading Clarence to the battered tin basin and bar of yellow soap which had formed the toilet service of the Silsbee party, he brought the boy into one of the wagons, where there was a washstand, a china basin, and a cake of scented soap.  Standing beside Clarence, he watched him perform his ablutions with an approving air which rather embarrassed his protege.  Presently he said, almost abruptly,—­

“Do you remember your father’s house at Louisville?”

“Yes, sir; but it was a long time ago.”

Clarence remembered it as being very different from his home at St. Joseph’s, but from some innate feeling of diffidence he would have shrunk from describing it in that way.  He, however, said he thought it was a large house.  Yet the modest answer only made his new friend look at him the more keenly.

“Your father was Colonel Hamilton Brant, of Louisville, wasn’t he?” he said, half-confidentially.

“Yes,” said Clarence hopelessly.

“Well,” said his friend cheerfully, as if dismissing an abstruse problem from his mind, “Let’s go to supper.”

When they reached the tent again, Clarence noticed that the supper was laid only for his host and wife and the second man—­who was familiarly called “Harry,” but who spoke of the former always as “Mr. and Mrs. Peyton”—­while the remainder of the party, a dozen men, were at a second camp fire, and evidently enjoying themselves in a picturesque fashion.  Had the boy been allowed to choose, he would have joined them, partly because it seemed more “manly,” and partly that he dreaded a renewal of the questioning.

But here, Susy, sitting bolt upright on an extemporized high stool, happily diverted his attention by pointing to the empty chair beside her.

“Kla’uns,” she said suddenly, with her usual clear and appalling frankness, “they is chickens, and hamanaigs, and hot biksquits, and lasses, and Mister Peyton says I kin have ’em all.”

Clarence, who had begun suddenly to feel that he was responsible for Susy’s deportment and was balefully conscious that she was holding her plated fork in her chubby fist by its middle, and, from his previous knowledge of her, was likely at any moment to plunge it into the dish before her, said softly,—­

“Hush!”

“Yes, you shall, dear,” said Mrs. Peyton, with tenderly beaming assurance to Susy and a half-reproachful glance at the boy.  “Eat what you like, darling.”

“It’s a fork,” whispered the still uneasy Clarence, as Susy now seemed inclined to stir her bowl of milk with it.