t, boy, drop it. You're the heir of a rich man now--isn't that
so, Captain?"

"That's so," agreed Captain Dan Rugley. "He'd better write in to his
bank and tell 'em to excuse him indefinitely; and write to his mother to
come out here and visit a spell with her brother. The Bar-T's big
enough, I should hope--hey, Frances? What do you say?"

"I am sure it would be nice to have Pratt's mother with us. I'd be
delighted to have somebody's mother in the house, Daddy," said Frances,
smiling. "You know, you're the best father that ever lived; but you
can't be mother, too."

"It's what you've missed since you were a tiny little girl, Frances,"
agreed Captain Rugley, gravely. "But just the same--I want 'em to show
me a girl in all this blessed Panhandle that's a better or finer girl
than my Frances. Am I right, Pratt?"

"You most certainly are, Captain," the young man agreed. "Or anywhere
outside the Panhandle."

Frances smiled at him roguishly. "Even from Boston, Pratt?" she
whispered.

But Pratt forgave her for that.

* * * * *

Another picture of the Bar-T ranch-house on a late afternoon. The
slanting rays of a westering sun lie across the floor of the main
veranda. The family party idling there need no introduction save in a
single particular.

A tall, well-built lady in black, and with grey hair, and who looks so
much like Pratt Sanderson that the relationship between them could be
seen at a glance, has the chair of honor. Mrs. Sanderson is making her
first of many visits to the Bar-T.

Old Jonas P. Lonergan, his crutch beside him, is lying comfortably in
another lounging chair. But he already looks much more vigorous.

Captain Dan Rugley, as ever, is tipped back against the wall in his
favorite position. Frances is with her sewing at a low table, while
Pratt is lying on the rug at his mother's feet.

"What's that Mr. Tooley said in his letter, Frances?" asked Pratt. "Is
he sure the man who was killed on the railroad when he went home from
here was a man named Pete Marin, who once was orderly at the soldiers'
home?"

"Yes," said Frances, gravely. "He was walking the track, they thought.
Either he was intoxicated or he did not hear the train. Poor fellow!"

"Blamed rascal!" ejaculated Jonas P. Lonergan.

"He made us some trouble--but it's over," said Pratt.

"You showed what sort of stuff you were made of, young man," said the
Captain, thoughtfully, "at that very