In the first place the three were complete
in themselves, a triangle of happiness without need of another member for
variety or interest. It was plain at a glance that the girl was
whole-heartedly happy, and whatever incongruity lay between her and these
rough mountains he began to understand that her love for Barry and the
child made ample amends. As for the other two, he always thought of them in
the same instant, for if the child had her eyes and her hair from her
mother, she had her nature from the man. They were together constantly, on
walks up the mountain, when she rode Black Bart up the steep places: on
dips into the valley, when he carried her before him on the stallion. She
had the same soft voice, the same quick, furtive ways, the same soundless
laughter, at times; and when Barry sat in the evening, as he often did for
hours, staring at empty air, she would climb on his knee, place his
unresisting arm around her, and she looking up into his face, sharing his
silences. Sometimes Vic wondered if the young mother were not troubled,
made a little jealous by this perfect companionship, but he never found a
trace of it.
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