Mr. Clark put out his hand.
"I am glad you told me this, Thornton," he said quietly, "and I believe you. See, here is a sheet of paper; it is scrawled over with letters and figures of every sort. Turn it over."
Wonderingly the man obeyed. Nothing was written on the other side. It was a blank page.
"You see there is nothing on that side," went on Donald's father. "We can there write what we will. Turn your own page the same way. Let us forget the past. Now for the future! Will you take the position as manager of Crescent Ranch?"
Thornton was aghast.
"I, sir! I? After all that has happened?" he contrived to stammer.
"Why not?"
"I couldn't do it, Mr. Clark. Not one of the men would believe in me. No, I am going to leave this place after the shearing is over, and go somewhere where no one knows me; there I can make a fresh start. And anyway, even if all this had not happened, I am not the man to be manager here. I have neither the confidence of the herders, nor the necessary knowledge about the flocks. But there is a man on Crescent Ranch who knows everything there is to know about sheep-raising—a man honest as the day, and who loves the place as if it was his own—Sandy McCulloch, sir. He is the only man for the position—there never has been any one else. Put him in as manager and you will never regret it."
Donald sprang up.
"Oh, father, do put Sandy in," he cried. "I never thought of Sandy as manager—he seems so young!"