an in an uncertain voice, and then
stopped, unable to go on.

"Yes, dear," returned Mrs. Archer simply. "Bud told me. It's a--a terrible
thing, of course, but I think--" She paused, choosing her words. "You
mustn't spoil your life, my dear, by taking it--too seriously."

Mary turned suddenly and stared at her, surprise battling with the misery
in her face.

"Too seriously!" she cried. "How can I possibly help taking it seriously?
It's too dreadful and--and horrible, almost, to think of."

"It's dreadful, I admit," returned the old lady composedly. "But after
all, it's your father's doings. You are not to blame."

The girl made a swift, dissenting gesture with both hands. "Perhaps not,
in the way you mean. I didn't do the--stealing." Her voice was bitter. "I
didn't even know about it. But I--profited. Oh, how could Dad ever have
done such an awful thing? When I think of his--his deliberately robbing
this man who--who had given his life bravely for his country, I could die
of shame!"

Her lips quivered and she buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Archer
reached out and patted her shoulder consolingly.

"But he didn't die for his country," she reminded her niece practically.
"He's very much alive, and here. He's got his ranch back, with the
addition of valuable oil deposits, or whatever you call them, which, Bud
tells me, might not have been discovered for years but for this." She
paused, her eyes fixed intently on the girl. "Do you--love him, Mary?" she
asked abruptly.

The girl looked up at her, a slow flush creeping into her face. "What
difference does that make?" she protested. "I could never make up to him
for--for what--father did."

"It makes every difference in the world," retorted Mrs. Archer positively.
"As for making up-- Why, don't you know that you're more to him than
ranches, or oil wells, or--anything on earth? You must realize that in
your heart."

Placing her handkerchief on the window-ledge, she rose briskly.

"I really must go and change my shoes," she said in quite a different
tone. "These slippers seem to--er--pinch a bit."

If they really did pinch, there was no sign of it as she crossed the room
and disappeared through a door at the farther end. Mary stared after her,
puzzled and a little hurt at the apparent lack of sympathy in one to whom
she had always turned for comfort and understanding. Then her mind flashed
back to her aunt's farewell words, and her brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

A