"From Yavapai, yes; I suspect, though, that Bruce Bayard knows something of where he is and I guess the girl could find him. Something peculiar about it, though. Bruce is worried. And I think he's quite desperately in love."
Forthwith, his wife dropped all other duties and went to Ann. In fifteen minutes the novelty of acquaintance had worn off and in an hour Ann was crying in the motherly arms, while she poured her whole wretched story into the sympathetic ears; that is, all of the story up to the day when Bruce Bayard told her why she must not help him nurse Ned Lytton back to physical and moral health.
To the accompaniment of many there-there's and dear-child's and caresses Ann's outburst of grief spent itself and the distress that had reflected on the countenance of the older woman gave way to an expression of sweet understanding.
"And because of everything, we—Mr. Bayard and I—had thought it best to let people go on thinking that I am ... Ned's sister.... You see, it might be embarrassing to have them talk."
Her look wavered and the face of Mrs. Weyl showed a sudden comprehension. For a breath she sat gazing at the profile of the girl beside her. Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said,
"I know, daughter, I know."
That meeting led to daily visits and soon Bruce and Ann were invited to eat their evening meal at the Weyls'. It was a peculiar event, with the self-consciousness of Ann and the rancher putting an effective damper on the conversation. Afterward, when the men sat outside in the twilight, Bruce smoking a cigarette and the minister drawing temperately on an aged cob pipe, the cowman broke a lengthy silence with:
"I'm glad she told your wife ... about bein' his wife.... It relieves me. A thing like that is considerable of a secret to pack around."
The other blew ashes gently from the bowl of his pipe, exposing the ruby coal before he spoke.
"If you ever think there's anything any man can do to help—from listening on up—just let me try, will you, my boy?"