Constance abandoned the skillet and returned to the blanket roll.

“Now,” went on Tom Osby, “things happens fast out here.  If I come and set in your parlor in New York, it takes me eight years to learn the name of your pet dog.  Lady comes out and sets in my parlor for eight minutes, and I ain’t such a fool but what I can learn a heap of things in that time.  That don’t mean necessary that I’m goin’ to tell any other fellow what I may think.  It does mean that I’m goin’ to see fair play.”

The girl could make no protest at this enigmatic speech, and the even voice went on.

“How I know things is easy,” he continued.  “If you think he”—­once more nodding his head toward the group beyond—­“come down here to hear a op’ry singer sing, I want to tell you he didn’t.  That was me.  He come to give me fair play in regards to a ‘face that was the fairest.’  I’m here to see that he gets fair play in them same circumstances—­”

“I just came down with my father,” Constance interrupted hotly, suddenly thrown upon the defensive, she knew not why.  “He’s been ill a great deal.  I’ve been alarmed about him.  I always go with him.”

“Of course.  I noticed that.  Your dad’s goin’ to run the railroad into Heart’s Desire, and we’ll all live happy ever after.  You come along just to see that your dad didn’t get sun stroke, or Saint Vitus dance, or cerebrus meningittus, or something else.  I understood all that perfectly, ma’am.  And I understand too, perfectly, ma’am,” he continued, tapping his pipe on a wagon wheel, “that back yonder in the States, somewhere, Dan Anderson knowed a ‘face that was the fairest’; I reckon he allowed it was ‘the fairest that e’er the sun shone on.’  Now, I’m old and ugly, and I don’t even know whether I’m a widower any or not; so I know, ma’am, you won’t take no offence if I tell you it’s a straight case of reasonin’; for yore own face, ma’am,—­and I ain’t sayin’ this with any sort of disrespect to any of my wives,—­is about the fairest that Dan Anderson ever did or could see—­or me either.  I don’t reckon, ma’am, that he’s lookin’ for one that’s any fairer.”

Constance Ellsworth turned squarely and gazed hard into the eyes of the man before her.  She drew a breath in sharply between her lips, but it was a sigh of content.  She felt herself safe in this man’s hands.  Again she broke into laughter and flung herself upon the convenient frying-pan, which she proceeded to scrub with sudden vigor.  Tom Osby’s eyes twinkled.

“Whenever you think that skillet’s clean enough, us two will set up and cook ourselves some breakfast right comfterble.  As for them fellers over there, they don’t deserve none.”

So presently they two did cook and eat yet again.  A strange sense of peace and content came to Constance, albeit mingled with remorse.  She had suspected Dan Anderson of worshipping at the shrine of an operatic star, whereas he had made the long journey from Heart’s Desire to see herself!  She knew it now.