“I wish I had a little girl like you，” he blurted out， stirredby a sudden consciousness of passion for paternity. “I’dwork my hands off. I ... I’d do anything.”
She considered his case with fitting gravity.
“Then you aren’t married？”
“Nobody would have me.”
“Yes they would， if....”
She did not turn up her nose， but she favoured hisdirt and rags with a look of disapprobation he could notmistake.
“Go on，” he half-shouted. “Shoot it into me. If I waswashed—if I wore good clothes—if I was respectable—ifI had a job and worked regular—if I wasn’t what I am.”
To each statement she nodded.
“Well， I ain’t that kind，” he rushed on.
“I’m no good. I’m a tramp. I don’t want to work， that’swhat. And I like dirt.”
Her face was eloquent with reproach as she said， “Thenyou were only making believe when you wished you had alittle girl like me？”
This left him speechless， for he knew， in all the deeps ofhis new-found passion， that that was just what he did want.
With ready tact， noting his discomfort， she sought tochange the subject.
“What do you think of God？” she asked.
“I ain’t never met him. What do you think about him？”
His reply was evidently angry， and she was frank in herdisapproval.
“You are very strange，” she said. “You get angry so easily.
I never saw anybody before that got angry about God， orwork， or being clean.”
“He never done anything for me，” he muttered resentfully.
He cast back in quick review of the long years of toilin the convict camps and mines. “And work never doneanything for me neither.”
An embarrassing silence fell.
He looked at her， numb and hungry with the stir of thefather-love， sorry for his ill temper， puzzling his brainfor something to say. She was looking off and away at theclouds， and he devoured her with his eyes. He reached outstealthily and rested one grimy hand on the very edge ofher little dress. It seemed to him that she was the mostwonderful thing in the world. The quail still called fromthe coverts， and the harvest sounds seemed abruptly tobecome very loud. A great loneliness oppressed him.
“I’m ... I’m no good，” he murmured huskily andrepentantly.
But， beyond a glance from her blue eyes， she took nonotice. The silence was more embarrassing than ever. Hefelt that he could give the world just to touch with his lipsthat hem of her dress where his hand rested. But he wasafraid of frightening her. He fought to find somethingto say， licking his parched lips and vainly attempting toarticulate something， anything.
“This ain’t Sonoma Valley，” he declared finally. “Thisis fairy land， and you’re a fairy. Mebbe I’m asleep anddreaming. I don’t know. You and me don’t know how totalk together， because， you see， you’re a fairy and don’tknow nothing but good things， and I’m a man from thebad， wicked world.”
Having achieved this much， he was left gasping for ideaslike a stranded fish.
“And you’re going to tell me about the bad， wickedworld，” she cried， clapping her hands. “I’m just dying toknow.”
He looked at her， startled， remembering the wreckageof womanhood he had encountered on the sunken waysof life. She was no fairy. She was flesh and blood， and thepossibilities of wreckage were in her as they had been inhim even when he lay at his mother’s breast. And therewas in her eagerness to know.
“Nope，” he said lightly， “this man from the bad， wickedworld ain’t going to tell you nothing of the kind. He’sgoing to tell you of the good things in that world. He’sgoing to tell you how he loved hosses when he was a shaver，and about the first hoss he straddled， and the first hosshe owned. Hosses ain’t like men. They’re better. They’reclean—clean all the way through and back again. And，little fairy， I want to tell you one thing—there sure ain’tnothing in the world like when you’re settin’ a tired hossat the end of a long day， and when you just speak， andthat tired animal lifts under you willing and hustles along.
Hosses！ They’re my long suit. I sure dote on hosses. Yep. Iused to be a cowboy once.”
She clapped her hands in the way that tore so delightfullyto his heart， and her eyes were dancing， as she exclaimed：
“A Texas cowboy！ I always wanted to see one！ I heardpapa say once that cowboys are bow-legged. Are you？”
