The vagabond had no desire to accept the hospitality of the ranch, but he found it impossible to affront her churlishly again. “Thank you,” he said, and drank. The drink was refreshing. Two fresh-beaten eggs had been stirred into it for nutrition. “Another?” she begged, and poured without waiting for an answer. The ghost of a smile crept into his eyes. It was the first hint of wholesome humor she had yet seen in him. He offered her, with a little bow, a quotation. “‘I can no other answer make, but thanks, And thanks, and ever thanks.’” The dimples broke into her cheeks as her smile flashed out in the pleasure of having broken the crust of his reserve. “That’s Shakespeare, isn’t it? I’m dreadfully illiterate, but it sounds like him.” “It does a little, doesn’t it?” He raised the glass before drinking. “Happy days, Miss Reed.” “That goes double,” she said quickly. The sardonic mask, that had for a moment been lifted, dropped again over his face. “Many more like this one,” he fleered. “You may look back on it and find it a good day yet,” she said bravely. He handed back the empty tumbler. “Afraid I’m not an optimist. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going. The ranch might change its mind about that hanging bee.” “But I do mind,” she protested. “I don’t want you to go yet. Please stay and meet my father. He’s not really hard and cruel as you think.” Again she saw on his lips the dry, bitter smile. “Think I’ll take your word for it. I’ve met him once.” “No, you haven’t met him--not to know him,” she cried softly, giving rein to swift impulse. “You’ve not met my Daddy--the best man in Paradise Valley. You can ask any one about him. He’s the squarest that ever was. The man you met was exasperated and--and not himself. Dad’s not like that--really.” “Indeed!” His voice was a compound of incredulity and indifference. It put her out of court. But her good impulses were not easily daunted. She had already learned that this young fellow wore armor of chain-mail to protect his sensitive pride. In her horoscope it had been written that she must give herself, and still give and give. The color beat through her dusky cheeks beneath the ardent eyes. She stabbed straight at his jaundiced soul. “If it were my father only that you don’t like--but it isn’t--you don’t find joy in anything. Your mind’s poisoned. I was reading the other day how Mr. Roosevelt used to quote from Borrow’s ‘Lavengro’: ‘Life is sweet, brother--there’s day and night, brother; both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, all sweet things--and likewise there’s a wind on the heath.’ It’s because he felt this in everything he did that they called him ‘Greatheart.’” It came to him that the name might not inaptly be applied to her. He thought of Browning’s “My Last Duchess”: “... She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate’er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.”