“I’ll go on working, share and share alike with you, like I’m doing now, or no share, no nothing, if you want me to, if you need me to, but I can’t––I can’t!”
“I was a hard master over you, my little Joan,” said Tim, gently, as if torn by the thorn of regret for his past blindness.
“You were, but you didn’t mean to be. I don’t mind it now, I’m still young enough to catch up on what I missed––I am catching up on it, every day.”
“But now when it comes in my way to right it, to 228 make all your life easy to you, Joan, you put your back up like a catamount and tear at the eyes of me like you’d put them out.”
“It wouldn’t be that way, Dad––can’t you see I don’t care for him? If I cared, he wouldn’t have to have any money, and you wouldn’t have to argue with me, to make me marry him.”
“It’s that stubborn you are!” said Tim, his softness freezing over in a breath.
“Let’s not talk about it, Dad,” she pleaded, turning to him, the tears undried on her cheeks, the sorrow of the years he had made slow and heavy for her in her eyes.
“It must be talked about, it must be settled, now and for good, Joan. I have plans for you, I have great plans, Joan.”
“I don’t want to change it now, I’m satisfied with the arrangement we’ve made on the sheep, Dad. Let me go on like I have been, studying my lessons and looking after the sheep with Charley. I’m satisfied the way it is.”
“I’ve planned better things for you, Joan, better from this day forward, and more to your heart. Mackenzie is all well enough for teachin’ a little school of childer, but he’s not deep enough to be over the likes of you, Joan. I’m thinkin’ I’ll send you to Cheyenne to the sisters’ college at the openin’ of the term; very soon now, you’ll be makin’ ready for leavin’ at once.”