“Yes, yes,” said the Rev. Mr. Wynn, hurriedly.

“And,” continued Nellie carelessly, “how you made us sing out of the same book ‘Children of our Father’s Fold,’ and how you preached at him until he actually got a color!”

“Yes,” said her father; “but it wasn’t known then he was an Injin, and they are frightfully unpopular with those Southwestern men among whom we labor.  Indeed, I am quite convinced that when Brace said ’the only good Indian was a dead one’ his expression, though extravagant, perhaps, really voiced the sentiments of the majority.  It would be only kindness to the unfortunate creature to warn him from exposing himself to their rude but conscientious antagonism.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell him, then, in your own popular way, which they all seem to understand so well,” responded the daughter.  Mr. Wynn cast a quick glance at her, but there was no trace of irony in her face—­nothing but a half-bored indifference as she walked toward the window.

“I will go with you to the coach-office,” said her father, who generally gave these simple paternal duties the pronounced character of a public Christian example.

“It’s hardly worth while,” replied Miss Nellie.  “I’ve to stop at the Watsons’, at the foot of the hill, and ask after the baby; so I shall go on to the Crossing and pick up the coach when it passes.  Good-by.”

Nevertheless, as soon as Nellie had departed, the Rev. Mr. Wynn proceeded to the coach-office, and publicly grasping the hand of Yuba Bill, the driver, commended his daughter to his care in the name of the universal brotherhood of man and the Christian fraternity.  Carried away by his heartiness, he forgot his previous caution, and confided to the expressman Miss Nellie’s regrets that she was not to have that gentleman’s company.  The result was that Miss Nellie found the coach with its passengers awaiting her with uplifted hats and wreathed smiles at the Crossing, and the box seat (from which an unfortunate stranger, who had expensively paid for it, had been summarily ejected) at her service beside Yuba Bill, who had thrown away his cigar and donned a new pair of buckskin gloves to do her honor.  But a more serious result to the young beauty was the effect of the Rev. Mr. Wynn’s confidences upon the impulsive heart of Jack Brace, the expressman.  It has been already intimated that it was his “day off.”  Unable to summarily reassume his usual functions beside the driver without some practical reason, and ashamed to go so palpably as a mere passenger, he was forced to let the coach proceed without him.  Discomfited for the moment, he was not, however, beaten.  He had lost the blissful journey by her side, which would have been his professional right, but—­she was going to Indian Spring! could he not anticipate her there?  Might they not meet in the most accidental manner?  And what might not come from that meeting away from the prying eyes of their own town?