ense which the Swedes, at
least, could ill afford.

Why had Lance taken her to Jumpoff, away from the fighting, and then
gone straight to the saloon and gotten so drunk that he fought every
one in town before he left in the morning? Why had he never come near
her again? And now that he was back in California, why did he ignore
her completely, and never send so much as a picture postal to show
that he gave her a thought now and then?

Mary Hope would not play the piano that day. She was more stern than
usual with her pupils, and would not so much as answer them when they
asked her where the piano and all the books had come from. Which was a
foolish thing to do, since the four Boyle children were keen enough to
guess, and sure to carry the news home, and to embellish the truth in
true range-gossip style.

Mary Hope fully decided that she would have the piano hauled back to
the Lorrigans. Later, she was distressed because she could think of no
one who would take the time or the trouble to perform the duty, and a
piano she had to admit is not a thing you can tie behind the cantle of
your saddle, or carry under your arm. The books were a different
matter. They were for the school. But the piano--well, the piano was
for Mary Hope Douglas, and Mary Hope Douglas did not mean to be
patronized in this manner by Lance Lorrigan or any of his kin.

But she was a music-hungry little soul, and that night after she was
sure that the children had ridden up over the basin's brim and were
out of hearing, Mary Hope sat down and began to play. When she began
to play she began to cry, though she was hardly conscious of her
tears. She seemed to hear Lance Lorrigan again, saying, "Don't be
lonely, you girl. Take the little pleasant things that come--" She
wondered, in a whispery, heart-achey way, if he had meant the piano
when he said that. If he had meant--just a piano, and a lot of books
for school!

The next thing that she realized was that the light was growing dim,
and that her throat was aching, and that she was playing over and over
a lovesong that had the refrain:

"Come back to me, sweetheart, and love me as before--
Come back to me, sweetheart, and leave me nevermore!"

Which was perfectly imbecile, a song she had always hated because of
its sickly sentimentality. She had no sweetheart, and having none, she
certainly did not want him back. But she admitted that there was a
certain melodious swing to the tun