pacity for enjoyment, she developed a quaint gift of jest and she
proved a natural horsewoman. Molly coaxed her into different modes of
hair dressing and little touches of color. She laughed understandingly
and talked spontaneously. Evenings, when they would return to the
disconsolate Mormon, who bewailed openly his lack of saddle ease, they
found, two nights out of three, Miranda Bailey, self-charioted in her
flivver with offerings of cake and doughnuts to supplement Pedro's still
uncertain efforts.

Molly chuckled once to Sandy.

"Miranda's a dear," she said. "I wish she'd marry Mormon. But Kate
Nicholson is a far better cook than she is. Only she won't do anything
for fear of hurting Miranda's feelings."

Yet the governess did cook on occasion, trout that they caught in the
mountain streams, and camp biscuits and fragrant coffee when they made
excursion, so deft a presiding genius of the camp-fire that Sam declared
she belonged to Sageland.

"I love it," she answered, sleeves tucked to the elbow, stooping over
the fire, her face full of color, tucking a vagrant wisp of hair into
place.

"Not much like the East, is it, Molly?" Sandy would ask.

"Not a bit. Lots better."

"You must miss a lot."

"What, for instance, Sandy?"

"Real music, for one thing. Concerts, theaters. Your sports. Tennis and
golf. The people you met at the Keiths'. Clothes, pritty dresses,
dancin'."

"I love dancing," she said. "But not always the way they dance. Tennis
and golf are poky compared to riding Blaze. I like pretty things, but
I'm not crazy about clothes, Sandy. And lots of them are, back there.
Grown-up women as well as the girls I knew. And they are never
satisfied, Sandy. It isn't real there. Nobody seems to know each other.
Anybody could drop out and not be missed. It is all a rush. It is good
to be back--good."

She stopped talking, gazing into the fire. The nights at Three Star were
crisp. It was as if cold was jealous of the land that the sun wooed so
ardently and rushed upon it the moment the latter sank behind the hills.
Sandy looked at her hungrily, wishing she would elect to sit there
always, mistress of the hearth and of him.

"Young Keith'll be over soon, I reckon," he said presently. "He said
he'd come. Like him, Molly?"

It was not jealousy prompted the suggestion, but Sandy had more than
once contrasted himself with the youngster and his easy manners, his
undeniably good looks, his youth, wondering how