y seem to hit it off well, that pair," said Miranda.

Kate Nicholson murmured something about the kitchen and left the room to
attend to some refreshments. She had gradually taken over supervision of
Pedro and the results had justified Molly's praise of her qualifications
as a housekeeper.

"Now tell me about Keith," demanded Miranda. "What's he been up to?"

Sandy told her.

"I ain't a mite surprised. That Westlake acts white. I liked him from
the start. What are you goin' to do about Molly? You ain't told her
yet?"

"No use spoilin' her holiday befo' we have to," said Sandy. "I'm goin'
to talk with Keith first."

"It'll be a good thing in a way, mebbe," said Miranda. "Molly belongs
out west where she was born an' brought up. I hope she stays," she added
with a shrewd glance at Sandy that startled him into a suspicion that
Miranda had guessed his secret.

Kate Nicholson returned and the talk changed. Westlake and Molly
remained outside until the food was served. Then there was music.
Through the evening the pair talked together, confidentially, apart from
the rest. Miranda departed at last with the telegrams. Molly lingered as
good nights were said.

"I've got something to tell you, Sandy," she said. "It's private, for
the present," she added with a glance toward Westlake.

Sandy sat down by the fire with a sinking qualm. Molly perched herself
on the arm of his chair, silent for a moment or two.

"It's a love story, Sandy," she said presently.

"Westlake?"

"Yes. He wanted me to tell you before he went. He's very fond of you,
Sandy."

"Is he?" Sandy spoke slowly, rousing himself with an effort. "I think
he's a fine chap. I sure wish him all the luck in the world." He fancied
his voice sounded flat.

"I suppose you wondered why we were so chummy all the evening?"

"Yes. I wondered a li'l' about that." Sandy did not look at her, but
gazed into the dying fire. He saw himself sitting there, lonely,
woman-shy once more, through the long stretch of years, with a letter
coming once in a while from far-off places telling of a happiness that
he had hoped for and yet had known could not be for him; Sandy Bourke,
cow-puncher, two-gun man, rancher, growing old.

"I was the first girl he had seen for a long while, you see," Molly was
saying. "And he had to talk it over with some one. He told me about it
first this morning and then the telegram came."

"Talkin' about what?"

"His sweetheart. Now he can marry