“But—Oh, she talks sweet, Brand!” cried the child eagerly, “and she—holds me on her lap!”
At the profound awe in the small voice the man’s face grew quickly grave.
“We must be pretty far gone as vagabonds!” he said, “that makes me think what a woman’s love must mean to a child. You have been a gift of God, dropped out of the blue to Sonny, Miss Allison, and I ought to thank you.”
“Why—you—you know who I am?” cried the girl, astounded.
“Certainly. And I know how long you’ve been coming here to the cañon. I know where you live, too—down on the flats by the river.”
His slow, amused smile at her evident discomfiture was engaging. It disarmed Nance, made her feel more than ever an intruder.
“I know what lost waifs you must think us—and you are partly right. We are. I’ve watched you with Sonny twice, and I have not removed our camp—if such it could be called—because I didn’t think you’d talk.”
“I haven’t,” said Nance, “except to my own family.”
“Since you have found us out,” he went on, “I shall tell you that Sonny is not the neglected little cast-off that you must naturally think him. I have hidden him here for a purpose. We have a purpose, the boy and I, and we have traveled many miles in its pursuit. We do seem mysterious—but we’re not so greatly so, after all. I try to care for him as best I may when I must be so much away from him. If it wasn’t for Dirk I couldn’t leave him as I do.”
“He’s well protected,” said Nance, “I used Sonny himself to betray the dog. I couldn’t do otherwise.”