he had had time to leave
the ranch for an evening with her.

And with the wishing Joe came. With firm step and the face of a victor
he came. From his dark eyes hope and tenderness were looking out.

"I haven't seen you for ages, and ages are awfully long, you know,"
Jerry declared.

"I've been very busy," Joe replied. "You know you can't break the laws
of the ranch and expect a harvest, any more than you can break the laws
of geometry and depend on results. I would have been up sooner, though,
but for one thing: a fellow on the ranch above mine who got hurt once
with a mowing-machine had another accident and I've been helping the
owner, that stout-hearted little Norwegian girl, Thelma Ekblad, to take
care of their crops, too. Thelma is a courageous soul who has worked her
way through the university, and she is a mighty capable girl, too. She
would be a splendid success as a teacher, she is so well trained, but
her family need her, and all of us down there need her."

Jerry caught her breath. It was the first time in three years that Joe
had ever mentioned any girl with interest. But now this was all right
and just as things should be. A neighbor, a capable Western girl--women
see far, after all, and Jerry's romance had not been a foolish one.

"That's all right, Joe, but I have been wanting to see you"--the old "I
want" as imperative again to-night as in the days when all of this
girl's wants had been met by the mere expression of them.

"And I'm always wanting to see you, and never so much as to-night," Joe
began, earnestly.

"Let me tell you first why I have wanted to see you once more," Jerry
broke in, hastily.

In the dull light her dreamy dark-blue eyes and her golden hair falling
away from her white brow left an imprint that Joe Thomson's mind kept
henceforth; at the same time that "once more" cut a deeper wound than
Jerry could know.

"My aunt Jerry Darby is dead." The girl's voice was very low. "I can't
grieve for her, for she was old and tired of life and unhappy. You
remember I told you about her one night here three years ago."

Joe did remember.

"She left all her fortune to Cousin Gene Wellington."

"The artist who turned out to be a bank clerk?" Joe asked. "I really
always doubted that story."

"Yes, but, you know, he did it to please Aunt Jerry. Think of a
sacrifice like that! Giving up one's dearest life-work!"

"I'm thinking of it. Excuse me. Go on," Joe said.

Jerry lifted her big dr