the thieves at that. Yo no se (I
don't know)."

When Joyce was in the room where Dave lay on the lounge, the young man
never looked at her, but he saw nobody else. Brought up in a saddle on
the range, he had never before met a girl like her. It was not only that
she was beautiful and fragrant as apple-blossoms, a mystery of maidenhood
whose presence awed his simple soul. It was not only that she seemed so
delicately precious, a princess of the blood royal set apart by reason of
her buoyant grace, the soft rustle of her skirts, the fine texture of the
satiny skin. What took him by the throat was her goodness. She was
enshrined in his heart as a young saint. He would have thought it
sacrilege to think of her as a wide-awake young woman subject to all the
vanities of her sex. And he could have cited evidence. The sweetness of
her affection for rough Em Crawford, the dear, maternal tenderness with
which she ruled her three-year-old brother Keith, motherless since the
week of his birth, the kindness of the luminous brown eyes to the uncouth
stranger thrown upon her hospitality: Dave treasured them all as signs of
angelic grace, and they played upon his heartstrings disturbingly.

Joyce brought Keith in to say good-bye to Dave and his friend before
they left. The little fellow ran across the room to his new pal, who
had busied himself weaving horsehair playthings for the youngster.

"You turn back and make me a bwidle, Dave," he cried.

"I'll sure come or else send you one," the cowpuncher promised, rising to
meet Joyce.

She carried her slender figure across the room with perfect ease and
rhythm, head beautifully poised, young seventeen as self-possessed as
thirty. As much could not be said for her guests. They were all legs and
gangling arms, red ears and dusty boots.

"Yes, we all want you to come back," she said with a charming smile. "I
think you saved Father's life. We can't tell you how much we owe you. Can
we, Keith?"

"Nope. When will you send the bwidle?" he demanded.

"Soon," the restored patient said to the boy, and to her: "That wasn't
nothin' a-tall. From where I come from we always been use to standin' by
our boss."

He shifted awkwardly to the other foot, flushing to the hair while he
buried her soft little hand in his big freckled one. The girl showed no
shyness. Seventeen is sometimes so much older than twenty.

"Tha's what us D Bar Lazy R boys are ridin' with yore paw's outfit for,
Miss--to be