e Yuma colt," said Winthrop. "Overland is riding her."

"Overland?"

"Yes. He's coming to meet us."

Plunging through the crackling greasewood at the side of the road, the
Yuma colt leaped toward the car. In broad sombrero, blue silk
neckerchief, blue flannel shirt, and silver-studded leather chaps, was a
strangely familiar figure. The great silver spurs rang musically as the
pony reared. The figure gave easily to the wild plunging of the horse,
yet was as firm as iron in the saddle.

Anne drew a deep breath. It was not the grotesque, frock-coated Overland
of a recent visit, nor was it the ragged, unkempt vision Louise had
conjured up for her in relating the Old Meadow story. In fact, it was
not Overland Red at all, but Jack Summers, the range-rider of the old
red Abilene days. He was clean-shaven, vigorous, splendidly strong, and
confident. In the saddle, bedecked in his showy trappings, surrounded by
his friends, Jack Summers had found his youth again, and the past was as
a closed book, for the nonce.

"I'm the boss's envy extraordinary," said Overland, by way of greeting.
"Walt said something else, too, about bein' a potentiary, but I reckon
_that_ was a joke."

"Good-morning! Don't get down! Glad to see you again!"

But Overland was in the road, hat in hand, and Yuma's bridle-reins over
one arm.

"'Mornin', Billy! 'Mornin', Doctor! You run right up to the house. I left
the gate open."

Then Overland rode back, following them. Later he reappeared, minus
spurs and chaps, but still clad in the garb of the range-rider. He was
as proud and happy as a boy. He seemed to have dropped ten years from
his shoulders. And he was strangely unlike his old boisterous self
withal.

The noon sun crept through the moon-vine. Out on the wide veranda was
the long table. They were a happy group at luncheon there. Even the
taciturn Brand Williams had been persuaded to come. His native
picturesqueness was rather effaced by a black, characterless suit of
"store clothes."

Walter Stone, at the conclusion of the luncheon, asked Overland to make
a speech. Nothing daunted, Overland rose briskly.

"I expect you're lookin' for me to fall off the roof of the cannery into
the tomato-vat and make a large red splash. Not me. I got somethin' to
say. Now the difference in droppin' a egg on the kitchen floor and
breakin' it calm-like, in a saucer, ain't only the muss on the floor.
You save the egg. Just recent I come nigh to losin' my wh