“It was his friend, you say, who has taught you that—you have nothing further to fear? And who is this paragon?”
“He is the man who sold me the farm. He is such a good, kind creature. He is loved and respected by every soul in the place. He is so wise, too,—he is quite wonderful. You know, he only sold his farm to me to keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sort of foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a little boy—picked him up on the trail-side. That’s about twenty years ago, soon after the Padre—that’s what they call him—first came here.”
“Yes, yes; but his name?”
Mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh young mind of the girl.
“Moreton Kenyon.”
The eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl’s face.
“Moreton—who?”
“Kenyon.”
Mercy sat up in her chair. Her whole figure was poised alertly. Her eyes were no longer uninterested. She was stirred to swift mental activity. She knew that the web was readjusting itself. The portion she had been seeking to place was finding its own position.