“But the boy, father?”
“He is to stay with us until I can send him to the States,” he told her. She saw nothing unusual in what he had done; since this kindness, for such it seemed to her, was wholly characteristic of him.
“That's just like you, father; you are always taking trouble for other people.”
“Am I? I didn't know.” He smiled at her. “Do you mind?” he added.
“No; poor little fellow. He fell asleep at the table, and I carried him up-stairs and put him to bed.”
Ephriam chuckled softly.
“I guess you're every bit as bad as I,” he said.
He seated himself on a bench by the ranch door, and fell to considering the child's story, seeking to fix some explanation to it, that would account for Young's interest in him.
Inside the house the girl came and went. Lost in thought the old man did not note the passing of time, and it was only when his daughter appeared in the doorway to tell him that supper was on the table, that he roused from his long revery, but with the problem as far as ever from solution.
“Bless me, it's almost candle-light,” he cried. “Where's the boy?”