“I am not the sort of wife you want,” she said, with an attempt of airiness. He answered roughly, “I am the judge of that.” And his roughness was a pleasure to her, yet it made her afraid of herself. When he was absent from her, and she could sit in her cabin and look at Grandmother Stark, and read home letters, then in imagination she found it easy to play the part which she had arranged to play regarding him--the part of the guide, and superior, and indulgent companion. But when he was by her side, that part became a difficult one. Her woman’s fortress was shaken by a force unknown to her before. Sam Bannett did not have it in him to look as this man could look, when the cold lustre of his eyes grew hot with internal fire. What color they were baffled her still. “Can it possibly change?” she wondered. It seemed to her that sometimes when she had been looking from a rock straight down into clear sea water, this same color had lurked in its depths. “Is it green, or is it gray?” she asked herself, but did not turn just now to see. She kept her face toward the landscape. “All men are born equal,” he now remarked slowly. “Yes,” she quickly answered, with a combative flash. “Well?” “Maybe that don’t include women?” he suggested. “I think it does.” “Do yu’ tell the kids so?” “Of course I teach them what I believe!” He pondered. “I used to have to learn about the Declaration of Independence. I hated books and truck when I was a kid.” “But you don’t any more.” “No. I cert’nly don’t. But I used to get kep’ in at recess for bein’ so dumb. I was most always at the tail end of the class. My brother, he’d be head sometimes.” “Little George Taylor is my prize scholar,” said Molly. “Knows his tasks, does he?” “Always. And Henry Dow comes next.” “Who’s last?” “Poor Bob Carmody. I spend more time on him than on all the rest put together.” “My!” said the Virginian. “Ain’t that strange!” She looked at him, puzzled by his tone. “It’s not strange when you know Bob,” she said. “It’s very strange,” drawled the Virginian. “Knowin’ Bob don’t help it any.” “I don’t think that I understand you,” said Molly, sticky. “Well, it is mighty confusin’. George Taylor, he’s your best scholar, and poor Bob, he’s your worst, and there’s a lot in the middle--and you tell me we’re all born equal!” Molly could only sit giggling in this trap he had so ingeniously laid for her. “I’ll tell you what,” pursued the cow-puncher, with slow and growing intensity, “equality is a great big bluff. It’s easy called.” “I didn’t mean--” began Molly.