enmity in the young man's, and raised his shoulders in a faint
shrug. He smiled to himself in amusement.

"No, there's nothing, thanks," said Sheila, quite unconscious of the
hidden meaning of his words. "Better get cleaned up for supper."

McCrae swung on silently, with his rapid, noiseless step. Farwell
turned to Sheila.

"Do this for me, Miss McCrae," he pleaded. "Give me a fair chance with
your father if you won't help me with him. Don't tell your brother of
what I'm trying to do. If you do that, his influence will be the other
way."

"If my father has made up his mind, none of us can change it," said
Sheila. "But I'll give you a fair field. I won't tell Sandy."

Farwell, in spite of previous virtuous resolutions, remained for
supper. The elder McCraes had not returned. The young people had the
meal to themselves; and Sheila and Farwell had the conversation to
themselves, for Sandy paid strict and confined attention to his food,
and did not utter half a dozen words. Immediately afterward he
vanished; but, when Farwell went to the stable for his horse, he found
the young man saddling a rangy, speedy-looking black.

"Guess I'll ride with you a piece," he announced.

"All right," Farwell replied carelessly. He did not desire company; but
if it was forced on him he could not help it.

The light was failing as they rode from the ranch house. The green
fields lay sombre in the creeping dusk. Nighthawks in search of food
darted in erratic flight, uttering their peculiar booming notes.
Running water murmured coolly in the ditch that flanked the road.
Cattle, full of repletion, stood in contented lethargy by the watering
place, ruminating, switching listlessly at the evening flies which
scarcely annoyed them. The vivid opalescent lights of the western sky
grew fainter, faded. Simultaneously the zenith shaded from turquoise to
sapphire. In the northeast, low over the plains, gleaming silver
against the dark velvet background of the heavens, lay the first star.

But Farwell paid no attention to these things. Instead, he was thinking
of Sheila McCrae--reconstructing her pose as she bade him good-bye, the
direct, level gaze of her dark eyes, the contour of her face, the
cloudy masses of her brown hair. He was unconsciously engaged in the
perilous, artistic work of drawing for his sole and exclusive use a
mental "portrait of a lady"; and, after the manner of man attracted by
woman, he idealized the picture of his creat