alued her; he had said more than once,
to those who he thought would never repeat it to her, that she was a
"great woman"; but self-interest was the mainspring of his appreciation.
Since she had come again to his house--she had lived with him once before
for two years when his wife was slowly dying--it had been a different
place. Housekeeping had cost less than before, yet the cooking was better,
the place was beautifully clean, and discipline without rigidity reigned
everywhere. One by one the old woman's boys and girls had died--four of
them--and she was now alone, with not a single grandchild left to cheer
her; and the life out here with Abel Baragar had been unrelieved by much
that was heartening to a woman; for Black Andy, Abel's son, was not an
inspiring figure, though even his moroseness gave way under her influence.
So it was that when Cassy's letter came her breast seemed to grow warmer
and swell with longing to see the wife of her nephew, who had such a bad
reputation in Abel's eyes, and to see George's little boy, who was coming,
too. After all, whatever Cassy was, she was the mother of Abel's son's
son; and Aunt Kate was too old and wise to be frightened by tales told of
Cassy or any one else. So, having had her own way so far regarding Cassy's
coming, she looked Abel calmly in the eyes, over the gold-rimmed
spectacles which were her dearest possession--almost the only thing of
value she had. She was not afraid of Abel's anger, and he knew it; but his
eldest son, Black Andy, was present, and he must make a show of being
master of the situation.

"Aunt Kate," he said, "I didn't make a fuss about you sending the horses
and sleigh for her, because women do fool things sometimes. I suppose
curiosity got the best of you. Anyhow, mebbe it's right Cassy should find
out, once for all, how things stand, and that they haven't altered since
she took George away, and ruined his life, and sent him to his grave.
That's why I didn't order Mick back when I saw him going out with the
team."

"Cassy Mavor," interjected a third voice from a corner behind the great
stove--"Cassy Mavor, of the variety-dance-and-song, and a talk with the
gallery between!"

Aunt Kate looked over at Black Andy, and stopped knitting, for there was
that in the tone of the sullen ranchman which stirred in her a sudden
anger, and anger was a rare and uncomfortable sensation to her. A flush
crept slowly over her face, then it died away, and she said q