. "Oh, lots of things.
You could--er--um--yes, of course you could."

"You can't think of one single thing I could do!"

"You could pick berries," said Angus struck by a brilliant thought.
"Yes, you could do that better than any man. I always have a lot more
than I can use, and you could put up all you needed for the winter."

"And you think giving me fruit would pay for--p-pay for--"

She broke off, and Angus saw to his utter amazement that her eyes were
full of tears, as she bent her head.

"Whatever is the matter?" he whispered. "Is it anything I've said?"

"It's--it's everything you've said," she murmured. "Don't say anything
for a minute, please."

So Angus kept silence, sorely puzzled, and in a few moments she looked
him in the face with eyes still misty and a little, tremulous smile.

"Yes, it's everything. I couldn't stand it. Nobody else has really
offered to help me. The boys think it's a joke, and Kathleen thinks I'm
mildly crazy. And then you, a stranger--"

"I'm not. And I might as well put in my spare time helping you."

"You have no spare time, and I know it. I must pay for what you do."

"All right. I'll send you a bill."

"For a fraction of what the work is worth!" she scoffed. "Not that way,
Angus Mackay!"

"Any way you like," Angus said, knowing that he could make it up to her.

"Very well--and thank you. I'll be an independent ranch lady--unless I
sell the place."

"Has any one made you an offer?"

"No. I would rather not sell, anyway."

"You have your title deeds all in order, in case you should want to
sell?"

"I suppose so. Uncle Godfrey would attend to that."

"He has the title papers?"

"Yes. I never saw them. I don't know much about such things. Father told
me Uncle Godfrey had them all."

Angus dropped the subject. He could not very well suggest that she take
a look at these papers. Faith Winton on her part appeared satisfied.
Presently she suggested music and went to the piano. Lying back in a
chair Angus watched the soft curve of her cheek, her clean-cut profile,
the certain touch of her fingers on the keys. Absently his gaze wandered
to the card players. He had no idea of the stakes, but the players were
tense, absorbed. Faith Winton, glancing at him, marked his expression.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked without interrupting the play of
her fingers.

"I was wondering how on earth these people can sit playing cards all
night."

"I hate this," she said.