He nodded and silently pointed to the notice.
“Oh, well, he won't hurt you, will he?”
“Can't stand it,” he answered savagely, “must get away.”
“What about Gwen?” I ventured, for she was the light of his eyes. “Pity to stop her studies.” I was giving her weekly lessons at the old man's ranch.
“Dunno. Ain't figgered out yet about that baby.” She was still his baby. “Guess she's all she wants for the Foothills, anyway. What's the use?” he added, bitterly, talking to himself after the manner of men who live much alone.
I waited for a moment, then said: “Well, I wouldn't hurry about doing anything,” knowing well that the one thing an old-timer hates to do is to make any change in his mode of life. “Maybe he won't stay.”
He caught at this eagerly. “That's so! There ain't much to keep him, anyway,” and he rode off to his lonely ranch far up in the hills.
I looked after the swaying figure and tried to picture his past with its tragedy; then I found myself wondering how he would end and what would come to his little girl. And I made up my mind that if the missionary were the right sort his coming might not be a bad thing for the Old Timer and perhaps for more than him.