She still leaned against the door, but her head was bent.

Presently she went about her housework. Every now and then she shot a

wistful look at Pierre. All morning long, he sat there, his hands

hanging between his knees, his eyes full of a brooding trouble. At

noon he shook his head, got up, and, still without word or caress, he

strode out and did not come back till dark. Joan suffered heartache

and terror. When he came, she ran into his arms. He kissed her, seemed

quite himself again, and the strange interview was never mentioned by

either of them. They were silent people, given to feelings and to

action rather than to thoughts and words.

The other memory was of a certain sunset hour when she came at

Pierre's call out to the shed he had built at one side of their cabin.

Its open side faced the west, and, as Joan came, her shadow went

before her and fell across Pierre at work. The flame of the west gave

a weird pallor to the flames over which he bent. He was whistling, and

hammering at a long piece of iron. Joan came and stood beside him.

Suddenly he straightened up and held in the air a bar of metal, the

shaped end white hot. Joan blinked.

"That's our brand, gel," said Pierre. "Don't you fergit it. When I've

made my fortune there'll be stock all over the country marked with

them two bars. That'll be famous--the Two-Bar Brand. Don't you fergit

it, Joan."

And he brought the white iron close so that she felt its heat on her

face and drew back, flinching. He laughed, let it fall, and kissed

her. Joan was very glad and proud.




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