"I have thought of him all along," Thornton continued. "That is why I was so ready with a word against him every chance I got. I have been afraid of him—afraid of his honesty and his goodness. It was not that he would tell tales about me; Sandy is too big-natured a man to do that. He would scorn to use a mean weapon. No, it was just because he was what he was that I feared him."
Mr. Clark was silent.
"You owe it to Old Angus, Sandy's father, to give the lad the place, sir," pleaded Thornton.
"And if I did what is to become of you, Thornton?" asked the owner slowly.
"Oh, I don't know. It does not matter. I will stay here until after the shearing, for it is a busy time and I might be of help. Then I can go and look up something else."
Donald watched his father as he bent forward and stirred the fire. The well-known little wrinkle had come in his forehead and the boy knew that his mind was busy.
"Thornton," said Mr. Clark at last, "have you relatives here in the West?"
"No, sir."
"Are you alone in the world?"
"Yes."