And the professor did understand her fully.  He told her so many times each day.  Had he not given all the years of his little life to the study of those refining and spiritualizing truths that are so far above the comprehension of the base and ignoble common herd?  Indeed, he understood her language; he understood fully, why the sordid, brutal materialism of her crude and uncultured environment so repulsed and disgusted her.  He understood, more fully than Kitty herself, in fact, and explained to her clearly, that her desires for the higher intellectual and spiritual life were born of her own rare gifts, and evidenced beyond all question the fineness and delicacy of her nature.  He rejoiced with her—­with a pure and holy joy—­that she was so soon to be set free to live amid the surroundings that would afford her those opportunities for the higher development of her intellectual and spiritual powers which her soul craved.  All this he told her from day to day; and then, one afternoon, he told her more.

It was the same afternoon that Patches had so unexpectedly found Helen and Stanford in their Granite Basin camp.  Kitty and the professor had driven in the buckboard to Simmons for the mail, and were coming back by the road to the Cross-Triangle, when the man asked, “Must we return to the ranch so soon?  It is so delightful out here where there is no one to intrude with vulgar commonplaces, to mar our companionship.”

“Why, no,” returned Kitty.  “There is no need for us to hurry home.”  She glanced around.  “We might sit over there, under those cedars on the hill, where you found me with Mr. Patches that day—­the day we saw Yavapai Joe, you remember.”

“If you think it quite safe to leave the vehicle,” he said, “I should be delighted.”

Kitty tied the horses to a convenient bush at the foot of the low hill, and soon they were in the welcome shade of the cedars.

“Miss Reid,” the professor began, with portentous gravity, “I must confess that I have been rather puzzled to account for your presence here that day with such a man as that fellow Patches.  You will pardon my saying so, I am sure, but you must have observed my very deep interest in you.  I also chanced to see you with him one day in Prescott, in the park.  You don’t mind my speaking of it?”

“Not at all, Professor Parkhill,” Kitty returned, smiling as she thought how ignorant the professor was of the cowboy’s real character.  “I like Patches.  He interests me very much; and there is really no reason why I should not be friendly with him.  Don’t you think that I should be kind to our cowboys?”

“I suppose so,” the professor sighed.  “But it hurts me to see you have anything whatever in common with such a man.  It shocks me to know that you must, in any degree, come in touch with such fellows.  I shall be very glad, indeed, when you are free from any such kindly obligations, and safe among those of your own class.”