Joan read his mind and sometimes he was an enigma.  But she divined when he was thinking what a picture she looked there, on her knees before the bread-pan, with flour on her arms; of the difference a girl brought into any place; of how strange it seemed that this girl, instead of lying a limp and disheveled rag under a tree, weeping and praying for home, made the best of a bad situation and unproved it wonderfully by being a thoroughbred.

Presently they sat down, cross-legged, one on each side of the tarpaulin, and began the meal.  That was the strangest supper Joan ever sat down to; it was like a dream where there was danger that tortured her; but she knew she was dreaming and would soon wake up.  Kells was almost imperceptibly changing.  The amiability of his face seemed to have stiffened.  The only time he addressed her was when he offered to help her to more meat or bread or coffee.  After the meal was finished he would not let her wash the pans and pots, and attended to that himself.

Joan went to the seat by the tree, near the camp-fire.  A purple twilight was shadowing the canon.  Far above, on the bold peak the last warmth of the afterglow was fading.  There was no wind, no sound, no movement.  Joan wondered where Jim Cleve was then.  They had often sat in the twilight.  She felt an unreasonable resentment toward him, knowing she was to blame, but blaming him for her plight.  Then suddenly she thought of her uncle, of home, of her kindly old aunt who always worried so about her.  Indeed, there was cause to worry.  She felt sorrier for them than for herself.  And that broke her spirit momentarily.  Forlorn, and with a wave of sudden sorrow and dread and hopelessness, she dropped her head upon her knees and covered her face.  Tears were a relief.  She forgot Kells and the part she must play.  But she remembered swiftly—­at the rude touch of his hand.

“Here!  Are you crying?” he asked, roughly.

“Do you think I’m laughing?” Joan retorted.  Her wet eyes, as she raised them, were proof enough.

“Stop it.”

“I can’t help—­but cry—­a little.  I was th—­thinking of home—­of those who’ve been father and mother to me—­since I was a baby.  I wasn’t crying—­for myself.  But they—­they’ll be so miserable.  They loved me so.”

“It won’t help matters to cry.”

Joan stood up then, no longer sincere and forgetful, but the girl with her deep and cunning game.  She leaned close to him in the twilight.

“Did you ever love any one?  Did you ever have a sister—­a girl like me?”

Kells stalked away into the gloom.