“And the Samaritan dumped oil on his head，” the trampmuttered reminiscently. “Seems to me I recollect a skypilot sayin’ something about that old gent. D’ye know， I’vebeen looking for him off’n’ on all my life， and never scaredup hide or hair of him. They ain’t no more Samaritans.”
“Wasn’t I one？” she asked quickly.
He looked at her steadily， with a great curiosity andwonder. Her ear， by a movement exposed to the sun， wastransparent. It seemed he could almost see through it. Hewas amazed at the delicacy of her colouring， at the blueof her eyes， at the dazzle of the sun-touched golden hair.
And he was astounded by her fragility. It came to him thatshe was easily broken. His eye went quickly from his huge，gnarled paw to her tiny hand in which it seemed to him hecould almost see the blood circulate. He knew the powerin his muscles， and he knew the tricks and turns by whichmen use their bodies to ill-treat men. In fact， he knewlittle else， and his mind for the time ran in its customarychannel. It was his way of measuring the beautifulstrangeness of her. He calculated a grip， and not a strongone， that could grind her little fingers to pulp. He thoughtof fist-blows he had given to men’s heads， and received onhis own head， and felt that the least of them could shatterhers like an eggshell. He scanned her little shoulders andslim waist， and knew in all certitude that with his twohands he could rend her to pieces.
“Wasn’t I one？” she insisted again.
He came back to himself with a shock—or away fromhimself， as the case happened. He was loth that theconversation should cease.
“What？” he answered. “Oh， yes； you bet you was a Samaritan，even if you didn’t have no olive oil.” He remembered whathis mind had been dwelling on， and asked， “But ain’t youafraid？”
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Of ... of me？” he added lamely.
She laughed merrily.
“Mamma says never to be afraid of anything. She saysthat if you’re good， and you think good of other people，they’ll be good， too.”
“And you was thinkin’ good of me when you kept thesun off，” he marvelled.
“But it’s hard to think good of bees and nasty crawlythings，” she confessed.
“But there’s men that is nasty and crawly things，” heargued.
“Mamma says no. She says there’s good in every one.”
“I bet you she locks the house up tight at night just thesame，” he proclaimed triumphantly.
“But she doesn’t. Mamma isn’t afraid of anything. That’swhy she lets me play out here alone when I want. Why，we had a robber once. Mamma got right up and foundhim. And what do you think！ He was only a poor hungryman. And she got him plenty to eat from the pantry， andafterward she got him work to do.”
Ross Shanklin was stunned. The vista shown him ofhuman nature was unthinkable. It had been his lot to livein a world of suspicion and hatred， of evil-believing andevil-doing. It had been his experience， slouching alongvillage streets at nightfall， to see little children， screamingwith fear， run from him to their mothers. He had evenseen grown women shrink aside from him as he passedalong the sidewalk.
He was aroused by the girl clapping her hands as shecried out.
“I know what you are！ You’re an open air crank. That’swhy you were sleeping here in the grass.”
He felt a grim desire to laugh， but repressed it.
“And that’s what tramps are—open air cranks，” shecontinued. “I often wondered. Mamma believes in theopen air. I sleep on the porch at night. So does she. Thisis our land. You must have climbed the fence. Mammalets me when I put on my climbers—they’re bloomers，you know. But you ought to be told something. A persondoesn’t know when they snore because they’re asleep.
But you do worse than that. You grit your teeth. That’sbad. Whenever you are going to sleep you must think toyourself， ‘I won’t grit my teeth， I won’t grit my teeth，’ overand over， just like that， and by and by you’ll get out of thehabit.
“All bad things are habits. And so are all good things.
And it depends on us what kind our habits are going to be.
I used to pucker my eyebrows—wrinkle them all up， butmamma said I must overcome that habit. She said thatwhen my eyebrows were wrinkled it was an advertisementthat my brain was wrinkled inside， and that it wasn’t goodto have wrinkles in the brain. And then she smoothedmy eyebrows with her hand and said I must always thinksmooth—smooth inside， and smooth outside. And do youknow， it was easy. I haven’t wrinkled my brows for ever solong. I’ve heard about filling teeth by thinking. But I don’tbelieve that. Neither does mamma.”
She paused， rather out of breath. Nor did he speak. Herflow of talk had been too much for him. Also， sleepingdrunkenly， with open mouth， had made him very thirsty.
But， rather than lose one precious moment， he enduredthe torment of his scorching throat and mouth. He lickedhis dry lips and struggled for speech.
“What is your name？” he managed at last.
“Joan.”
She looked her own question at him， and it was notnecessary to voice it.
“Mine is Ross Shanklin，” he volunteered， for the firsttime in forgotten years giving his real name.
“I suppose you’ve travelled a lot.”
“I sure have， but not as much as I might have wanted to.”
“Papa always wanted to travel， but he was too busy atthe office. He never could get much time. He went toEurope once with mamma. That was before I was born. Ittakes money to travel.”
Ross Shanklin did not know whether to agree with thisstatement or not.
“But it doesn’t cost tramps much for expenses，” she tookthe thought away from him. “Is that why you tramp？”
He nodded and licked his lips.
“Mamma says it’s too bad that men must tramp to lookfor work. But there’s lots of work now in the country. Allthe farmers in the valley are trying to get men. Have youbeen working？”
He shook his head， angry with himself that he shouldfeel shame at the confession when his savage reasoningtold him he was right in despising work. But this wasfollowed by another thought. This beautiful little creaturewas some man’s child. She was one of the rewards of work.
