Kent eyed her keenly. He knew there must have been something to put her into this state--something more than his own rebellion. He felt suddenly ashamed of his weakness in giving way--in telling her how it was with him. The faint, far-off chuckle of a wagon came to his ears. He turned impatiently toward the sound. Polycarp was driving up the coulee with a load of wood; already he was nearing the gate which opened into the lower field. Kent stood up, reached out, and caught Val by the hand. “Come on into the house,” he said peremptorily. “Polly's coming, and you don't want him goggling and listening. And I want you,” he added, when he had led her inside and closed the door, “to tell me what all this is about. There's something, and I want to know what. If it concerns you, then it concerns me a whole lot, too. And what concerns me I'm going to find out about--what is it?” Val sat down, got up immediately, and crossed the room aimlessly to sit in another chair. She pressed her palms tightly against both cheeks, drew in her breath as if she were going to speak, and, after all, said nothing. She looked out of the window, pushing back the errant strand of hair. “I can't--I don't know how to tell you,” she began desperately. “It's too horrible.” “Maybe it is--I don't know what you'd call too horrible; I kinda think it wouldn't be what I'd tack those words to. Anyway--what is it?” He went close, and he spoke insistently. She took a long breath. “Manley's a thief!” She jerked the words out like as automaton. They were not, evidently, the Words she had meant to speak, for she seemed frightened afterward. “Oh, that's it!” Kent made a sound which was not far from a snort. “Well, what about it? What's he done? How did you find it out?” Val straightened in the chair and gazed up at him. Once more her tawny eyes gave him a certain shock, as if he had never before noticed them. “After all our neighbors have done for him,” she cried bitterly; “after giving him hay, when his was burned and he couldn't buy any; after building stables, and corral, and--everything they did--the kindest, best neighbors a man ever had--oh, it's too shameful for utterance! I might forgive it--I might, only for that. The--the ingratitude! It's too despicable--too--” Kent laid a steadying hand upon her arm. “Yes--but what is it?” he interrupted. Val shook off his hand unconsciously, impatient of any touch. “Oh, the bare deed itself--well, it's rather petty, too--and cheap.” Her voice became full of contempt. “It was the calves. He brought home five last night--five that hadn't been branded last spring. Where he found them _I_ don't know--I didn't care enough about it to ask. He had been drinking, I think; I can usually tell--and he often carries a bottle in his pocket, as I happen to know.