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y low and very amusedly.
Joan looked him over and slowly smiled. "You look like you could bust anything you'd a mind to," she said, and led the way toward the house, her rake across her shoulder.
"Pierre," she told him when they were in the shining, clean log house, "is off in the hills after his elk, but I can make you up a bed in the settin'-room an' serve you a supper an' welcome."
"Oh, thanks," he rather doubtfully accepted.
"What do you do when Landis is away?"
She told him.
"But, in the evenings, I mean, after work. Have you books?"
"No," said Joan; "it's right hard labor, readin'. Pa learned me my letters an' I can spell out bits from papers an' advertisements an' what not, but I ain't never read a book straight out. I dunno," she added presently, "but as I'd like to. Pierre can read," she told him proudly.
"I'm sure you'd like to." He considered her through the smoke of his pipe. He was sitting by the hearth now, and she, just through with clearing up, stood by the corner of the mantel shelf, arranging the logs. The firelight danced over her face, so beautiful, so unlighted from within.
"How old are you, Joan Landis?" he asked suddenly, using her name without title for the first time.
"Eighteen."
"Is that all? You must read books, you know. There's so much empty space there back of your brows."
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