that I am eighteen, of legal age, to-day."

Mr. Horton's jaw dropped, and for a speechless instant he looked the
picture of blank amazement, then he rallied.

"Records can lie," he declared, brutally. "You don't look eighteen,
Jessie Gordon, and I don't believe you are. It's a likely story, ain't
it now, that you should happen to be of age on the very day, almost,
that it's a matter of life or death, as one might say, that you should
be! No, that's too thin; it won't wash. You've made a little mistake
in your entry, that's all. One of them convenient mistakes that folks
are apt to make when it's to their interest to do so."

"As there is no man here to kick you out of the house, I suppose you
feel at liberty to say whatever comes into your wicked head, and we
must bear it!" Jessie said, her voice shaken with anger.

In spite of himself, Mr. Horton winced at that. "I ain't one to take
advantage of your being helpless," he declared, virtuously. "You've
no call to hint as much. But you know as well as I do that you don't
look a day over sixteen, if you do that, and you couldn't make
nobody--no land agent--believe that you are of age, if you didn't have
that record to swear by."

"As we do have it, it will probably answer our purpose."

"Oh, well; maybe 'twill; maybe 'twill!" his glance ranged up and down
the window, where lay the book with its irrefutable evidence. Then his
eyes fell, and his tones changed to blandness once more. "I must be
going," he announced, edging toward the door; "I was passing along,
and an idee popped into my head. You've been to some expense in
helping to find your pa's body--though why you should 'a' been so set
on finding it, nobody knows; folks is so cur'ous, that way! If it had
been my case, I reckon my folks would 'a' had sense enough to leave me
where I was--"

"I am sure they would--gladly!" I interposed, quickly.

Mr. Horton shot an evil glance in my direction, and went on: "Well,
you've been to some expense, and the mines have shut down so's 't that
old crackerjack of a nigger that hangs 'round your place is out of
work. I'm going to pre-empt this place--none o' your slack-twisted
homestead rights for me--and I thought it would be neighborly if I was
to step in and tell you, Jess, that my wife's wanting a hired girl.
She was speaking of it last night, and the thought came into my head
right off, though I didn't mention it to her, that you was going
to need a home, and there was