And there was another blind, sweet moment. Then Cleve tore himself
away, and Joan leaned at the window, watching the shadow, with tears
in her eyes and an ache in her breast.

From that day Joan lived a life of seclusion in the small room.
Kells wanted it so, and Joan thought best for the time being not to
take advantage of Bate Wood's duplicity. Her meals were brought to
her by Wood, who was supposed to unlock and lock her door. But Wood
never turned the key in that padlock.

Prisoner though Joan was, the days and nights sped swiftly.

Kells was always up till late in the night and slept half of the
next morning. It was his wont to see Joan every day about noon. He
had a care for his appearance. When he came in he was dark,
forbidding, weary, and cold. Manifestly he came to her to get rid of
the imponderable burden of the present. He left it behind him. He
never spoke a word of Alder Creek, of gold, of the Border Legion.
Always he began by inquiring for her welfare, by asking what he
could do for her, what he could bring her. Joan had an abhorrence of
Keils in his absence that she never felt when he was with her; and
the reason must have been that she thought of him, remembered him as
the bandit, and saw him as another and growing character. Always
mindful of her influence, she was as companionable, as sympathetic,
as cheerful, and sweet as it was possible for her to be. Slowly he
would warm and change under her charm, and the grim gloom, the dark
strain, would pass from him. When that left he was indeed another
person. Frankly he told Joan that the glimpse of real love she had
simulated back there in Cabin Gulch was seldom out of his mind. No
woman had ever kissed him like she had. That kiss had transfigured