The man drew to one side to let the riders pass.
It was Joses; and he had changed.
There was less of the sow and more of the wolf about him than of old. His shaggy whiskers were touched with gray, and there was something hard and fierce about his face. The old inflamed and flabby look had been hammered out of him in the hard school from which he had just emerged.
He eyed the riders as they passed.
Boy's grave eyes became graver and more self-contained. At once she was alert and had locked all her doors. In that firm, courageous face of hers there was no curiosity, no unkindness, and least of all no fear. The young man glancing at her thought he had never seen such strength manifest in any face; and it was not the strength that is based on hardness, for she was paler than her wont.
Then she spoke.
Her voice, deep as a bell and very quiet, surprised him in the silence. He had not expected it, and yet somehow it seemed to him beautifully appropriate.
"Good morning, Mr. Joses," said the voice, and that was all; but it wrought a miracle.
"Yes," growled the man in the wayside, "it wasn't you: it was Silver."
The young man's face flashed white. He pulled up instantaneously.