y,
coming to the rescue. "They said in spite of there being so many cows
all around everywhere, there wasn't any butter or milk, and that the
cowboys wouldn't like to be asked to milk, you know."

"You read it? Where?" Genevieve's forehead still wore its frown.

Mr. Hartley gave a chuckling laugh.

"I reckon Genevieve doesn't know much about such ranches," he observed.
"As I was telling you, Miss Cordelia, coming out this afternoon, there's
just as much difference in ranches as there is in folks; and ours
happens to be the kind where we like all the comforts of home pretty
well. To be sure, I wouldn't just like to ask Reddy or Long John to
milk, maybe," he added, with a whimsical smile; "but I don't have to,
you see. I've got Carlos for just such work. He looks after the
vegetable garden, too, and Genevieve's flowers. By the way, dearie,"--he
turned to his daughter--"Tim says Carlos has been putting in his
prettiest work on your garden this summer. Be sure you don't forget to
notice it."

"As if I could help noticing it," returned Genevieve. She was about to
say more when there came an earnest question from Cordelia.

"Mr. Hartley, please, what did you call those two men?"

"What men?"

"The ones you--you wouldn't wish to ask to milk."

"Oh, the boys? I don't remember--I reckon 'twas Reddy and Long John that
I mentioned, maybe."

"Yes, sir; that's the one I mean--the John one. What is his other name,
please?"

"His surname? Why, really, Miss Cordelia, I reckon I've forgotten what
it is. The boys all go by their first names, mostly, else by a nickname.
Why? Found a long-lost friend?"

"Oh, no, sir. Well, I mean--that is--he may be lost, but he isn't mine,"
stammered Cordelia, who was always very literal.

"Then don't blush so, Cordy," bantered Tilly, wickedly, "else we shall
think he is yours."

Cordelia blushed a still deeper pink, but she said nothing; and in the
confusion of leaving the dining-room she managed to place herself as far
from Tilly as possible. On the back gallery she saw the ranch foreman.
As the others went chattering through the hall to the gallery beyond,
she lingered timidly.

"Mr. Nolan, would--would you please tell me Mr.--Mr. John's other name?"

"John? Oh, you mean 'Long John,' Miss?"

"Yes; but--'John' what?"

Tim Nolan frowned.

"Why, let me see,"--he bit his lip in thought--"'Pierce'--no, 'Proctor.'
Yes, that's it--'John Proctor.'"

A look of mingled disappointment an