It was not her Bishop who eyed her in curious measurement.

It was a man who tramped into her presence without removing his hat, who had no greeting for her, who had no semblance of courtesy.

In looks, as in action, he made her think of a bull stamping cross-grained into a corral.

She had heard of Bishop Dyer forgetting the minister in the fury of a common man, and now she was to feel it.

The glance by which she measured him in turn momentarily veiled the divine in the ordinary.
He looked a rancher; he was booted, spurred, and covered with dust; he carried a gun at his hip, and she remembered that he had been known to use it.