"In a month--a month from to-day." She regarded him with a sudden, new interest. "You are betraying a great deal of curiosity," she accused. "Why?" "Why," he answered slowly, "I reckon that isn't odd, is it? He's going to be my neighbor, isn't he?" "Oh!" she said with emphasis of mockery which equalled his. "And you are gossiping about your neighbor even before he comes." "Like a woman," he said with a smile. "An impertinent one," she retorted. "Your father," he said in accents of sarcasm, ignoring the jibe, "seems to think a heap of you--sending you all the way out here alone." "I came against his wish; he wanted me to wait and come with him." Her defense of her parent seemed to amuse him. He smiled mysteriously. "Then he likes you?" "Is that strange? He hasn't any one else--no relative. I am the only one." "You're the only one." He repeated her words slowly, regarding her narrowly. "And he likes you. I reckon he'd be hurt quite a little if you had fallen in with the sort of man I was going to tell you about." "Naturally." Sheila was tapping with her booted foot on his shadow on the floor and did not look at him. "It's a curious thing," he said slowly, after an interval, "that a man who has got a treasure grows careless of it in time. It's natural, too. But I reckon fate has something to do with it. Ten chances to one if nothing happens to you your father will consider himself lucky. But suppose you had happened to fall in with a different man than me--we'll say, for instance, a man who had a grudge against your father--and that man didn't have that uncommon quality called 'mercy.' What then? Ten chances to one your father would say it was fate that had led you to him." "I think," she said scornfully, "that you are talking silly! In the first place, I don't believe my father thinks that I am a treasure, though he likes me very much. In the second place, if he does think that I am a treasure, he is very much mistaken, for I am not--I am a woman and quite able to take care of myself. You have exhibited a wonderful curiosity over my father and me, and though it has all been mystifying and entertaining, I don't purpose to talk to you all night." "I didn't waken you," he mocked. Sheila swung around on the bunk, her back to him. "You are keeping me awake," she retorted. "Well, good night then," he laughed, "Miss Sheila." "Good night, Mr.--Mr. Dakota," she returned. Sheila did not hear him again. Her thoughts dwelt for a little time on him and his mysterious manner, then they strayed. They returned presently and she concentrated her attention on the rain; she could hear the soft, steady patter of it on the roof; she listened to it trickling from the eaves and striking the glass in the window above her head. Gradually the soft patter seemed to draw farther away, became faint, and more faint, and finally she heard it no more. CHAPTER III CONVERGING TRAILS