“What ye talking about?” said Ira sharply. Louisa hesitated. The truth must out before long, she knew. “He’s my father,” she said simply. Bud lifted his wooden peg of a leg and brought it down with a thump. “Whewee!” he exclaimed. “How did you find that out?” Louisa saw that she was in for it. “He was over here the other day,” she said, cudgeling her brains for a plausible explanation, “and we found it out then.” “Thought your father was dead; thought you was an orphin,” said Ira, speaking as one aggrieved. “I thought so, too, but he made it plain to me that it wasn’t so.” “Deserted your mother, eh?” Ira did not mince matters. Louisa felt that she must be on the defensive. “He didn’t go for to do it. He heard we was both dead and we heard the same of him. He was wounded, you know.” “Wounded,” Ira gave a snort. “When? Where?” “You needn’t say he wasn’t,” said Louisa, suddenly aggressive. “It was back there when there was trouble before with Mexico, and he fit for Texas.” “I believe he did fight. It appears to me I have heerd he did,” put in Bud, giving Ira a significant look. “So, he’s your dad. Well, they say old Cy can always tell which side his bread is buttered on, and that he ain’t so po’ly off.” This encouragement had the effect of producing a certain warmth of manner in Louisa’s greeting of her father as he came stiffly up. The red scar on his forehead was still noticeable when he took off his hat. “What ye been doing to yerself, Cy?” said Bud whose attention was attracted by the scar. “Oh, nothing much,” returned Cyrus, pulling a straggling lock over the wound. “Got to foolin’ around in the dark and scraped my blamed head agin a tree.” “Oughter had better sense,” said Bud. “They tell me you’re settin’ up to be a family man.” “How’d ye hear that?” asked Cyrus quickly. “Louisa was just tellin’ us.” “Well now, ain’t I in luck? ’Tain’t every man can have a smart darter come down from the States to housekeep for him and he have nothin’ to pay for her comin’.” “No, ’tain’t every man lucky enough not to ever pay out nothin’ fer fetchin’ up his flesh and blood and after she’s riz up good and respectable to hev the benefit of what she’s larnt. I should call it nothin’ but bald luck,” said Bud. “Ye certainly can’t call it nothin’ else,” put in Ira. “Now if things was to go by deserts ye never would hev found her out.” Cyrus looked from one to the other frowning. Just how much they knew and how much they suspected he could not discover, but his rôle was that of the fond father and he was bound to play his part. “Well, all is, Providence put her in the way of findin’ her dad,” he said pleasantly. “I tell ye, boys, ye’ll never know a father’s feelings till ye hev darters of yer own.” “Providence! Providence!” Ira roared with laughter. “A gal that kin cook like Louisa kin, needin’ Providence to put her in the way of an old shark like Cy Sparks, is a good un.”