“I’ve been right lonesome since she went away.  ’Most every day I find myself stealing sugar for her, the way I used to do.  See!” He fumbled in the pocket of his coat and produced some broken lumps.  “Probably you don’t understand how a man gets to love his horse.  Now we used to talk to each other, just like two people.  Of course, I did most of the talking, but she understood.  Why, ma’am, I’ve awakened in the night to find her standing over me and my cheek wet where she’d kissed it.  She’d leave the nicest grass just to come and visit with me.”

Alaire turned a quick glance upon the speaker to find his face set and his eyes miserable.  Impulsively she laid her hand upon his arm, saying: 

“I know how you must feel.  Do you know what has always been my dearest wish?  To be able to talk with animals; and to have them trust me.  Just think what fun it would be to talk with the wild things and make friends of them.  Oh, when I was a little girl I used to dream about it!”

Law nodded his vigorous appreciation of such a desire.  “Dogs and horses sabe more than we give them credit for.  I’ve learned a few bird words, too.  You remember those quail at the water-hole?”

“Oh yes.”

Dave smiled absent-mindedly.  “There’s a wonderful book about birds—­one of the keenest satires ever written, I reckon.  It’s about a near-sighted old Frenchman who was cast away on a penguin island.  He saw the big birds walking around and thought they were human beings.”

“How did you happen to read Anatole France?” Alaire asked, with a sharp stare of surprise.

The Ranger stirred, but he did not meet her eyes.  “Well,” said he, “I read ’most anything I can get.  A feller meets up with strange books just like he meets up with strange people.”

“Not books like—­that.”  There was a brief silence.  “Mr. Law, every now and then you say something that makes me think you’re a—­rank impostor.”

“Pshaw!” said he.  “I know cowboys that read twice as good as I do.”

“You went to school in the East, didn’t you?”

“Yes’m.”

“Where?” The man hesitated, at which she insisted, “Where?”

Dave reluctantly turned upon her a pair of eyes in the depths of which there lurked the faintest twinkle.  “Cornell,” said he.

Alaire gasped.  After a while she remarked, stiffly, “You have a peculiar sense of humor.”

“Now don’t be offended,” he begged of her.  “I’m a good deal like a chameleon; I unconsciously change my color to suit my surroundings.  When we first met I saw that you took me for one thing, and since then I’ve tried not to show you your mistake.”

“Why did you let me send you those silly books?  Now that you have begun to tell the truth, keep it up.  How many of them had you read?”

“We-ll, I hadn’t read any of them—­lately.”

“How disagreeable of you to put it that way!” The car leaped forward as if spurred by Alaire’s mortification.  “I wondered how you knew about the French Revolution.  ’That Bastilly was some calaboose, wasn’t it’?” She quoted his own words scornfully.  “I dare say you’ve had a fine laugh at my expense?”