he rancho? It is true he had a hundred
men--laborers and vaqueros, but scarce a dozen of these were Americans,
and the rest would, almost without exception, follow the inclinations of
consanguinity in case of trouble.

To add to Grayson's irritability he had just lost his bookkeeper, and
if there was one thing more than any other that Grayson hated it was pen
and ink. The youth had been a "lunger" from Iowa, a fairly nice little
chap, and entirely suited to his duties under any other circumstances
than those which prevailed in Mexico at that time. He was in mortal
terror of his life every moment that he was awake, and at last had given
in to the urge of cowardice and resigned. The day previous he had been
bundled into a buckboard and driven over to the Mexican Central
which, at that time, still was operating trains--occasionally--between
Chihuahua and Juarez.

His mind filled with these unpleasant thoughts, Grayson sat at his desk
in the office of the ranch trying to unravel the riddle of a balance
sheet which would not balance. Mixed with the blue of the smoke from his
briar was the deeper azure of a spirited monologue in which Grayson was
engaged.

A girl was passing the building at the moment. At her side walked a
gray-haired man--one of those men whom you just naturally fit into a
mental picture of a director's meeting somewhere along Wall Street.

"Sich langwidge!" cried the girl, with a laugh, covering her ears with
her palms.

The man at her side smiled.

"I can't say that I blame him much, Barbara," he replied. "It was a
very foolish thing for me to bring you down here at this time. I can't
understand what ever possessed me to do it."

"Don't blame yourself, dear," remonstrated the girl, "when it was all my
fault. I begged and begged and begged until you had to consent, and I'm
not sorry either--if nothing happens to you because of our coming. I
couldn't stay in New York another minute. Everyone was so snoopy, and
I could just tell that they were dying to ask questions about Billy and
me."

"I can't get it through my head yet, Barbara," said the man, "why in the
world you broke with Billy Mallory. He's one of the finest young men in
New York City today--just my ideal of the sort of man I'd like my only
daughter to marry."

"I tried, Papa," said the girl in a low voice; "but I couldn't--I just
couldn't."

"Was it because--" the man stopped abruptly. "Well, never mind dear,
I shan't be snoopy too. He