n the
saddle twelve miles without reading her mail. Say----" she paused.
The smile had died out of her eyes. Jeff's expression had abruptly
changed. He was regarding the address on his envelope with startled
seriousness. Then she went on quickly: "Guess I'll wait till you're
both through. I'll get right out an' off-saddle. Then for supper."

In the parlor the silence remained unbroken. It became unduly
prolonged. Bud finished his mail. Jeff was still reading his. It was
not a long letter. He had already read it twice through. Now he again
turned back to its beginning.

Bud observed him closely. He saw the knitted brows. The curious set
of the man's lips. His absorbed interest. Nor did he interrupt. He
contented himself with that patient waiting which betrayed much of the
solid strength of his character.

Presently Jeff looked up. But his eyes did not seek his friend. They
were turned upon the open window, his gaze wandering out toward the
distant hills, which marked the confines of Rainbow Hill Valley.

Still the other refrained from speech. Finally it was Jeff, himself,
who broke the silence.

"Bud," he began, without withdrawing his gaze from the scene beyond the
window, "it's a letter from Ronald. It's the second word I've had of
him in--five years."

Bud nodded.

"The twin."

Jeff's gaze came slowly, thoughtfully back to Bud's face.

"Sure. We're twins."

An unusual softness crept into the eyes of the man at the table.

"I'm kind of wondering, Bud," he went on presently, "wondering if you
get all that means--means to me. I don't know." He passed a hand
slowly across his brow, as though to brush aside growing perplexities.
"I don't seem to get all it means myself. No, I don't. The whole
thing's so queer," he went on, with a nervous, restless movement in his
chair. "It sort of seems crazy, too." He laughed meaninglessly. Then
he suddenly leaned forward with flushed cheeks and hot eyes. "Bud,
don't think me crazy, but--well, say, I'm only part of me without Ronny
near. Oh, I don't guess that explains. But it's what I feel--and I
can't just talk it right. You don't get it? No, of course you don't.
I can see it in your eyes. You think I'm right for the foolish-house.
Listen. Is it possible--is it ordinary reason that when twins are
born, the nature of one normal child can be divided between the two,
one having what the other feller lacks? There, that's how I feel about