wo pounds of oatmeal, three wide slices of ham, five
chunks of hot bread, about two thousand beans, and drank all the coffee
I could get--and never foundered. How's that, against one silly glass of
malted milk two weeks ago? And I slept till seven. I woke up for just
eight seconds at four-thirty to hear the boys turning out. Oh, it was
gray and cold in that bunkhouse--with me warm in the blankets. That was
the one moment of real luxury I've ever known--not to turn out if I
didn't choose. And I did _not_ choose--if anyone should ride up hastily
and inquire of you. When we were on the drive I had to turn out with the
rest of the bunch and catch horses and unbuckle frosty hobbles with
stiff fingers, and fetch pails of ice water and freeze and do other
things, but this morning I just grinned myself asleep again. That was
worth living for, my girl."

But his sister was for once unresponsive. She had not seemed to hear
him.

"Clarence," she began, as if reciting lines she had learned, "there's a
chap over on the next ranch--Ewing's his name--that ought to have
something done for him. He's young, twenty-four, I believe, and boyish
even for that age, but he draws; draws well. His father was a painter
who died here years ago, and the boy has lived in these mountains ever
since. His father taught him to draw, but he has had no chance to study,
and he's reached a point where he must learn more or lose all he has.
I'm almost certain he can make something of himself. He ought to go to
New York, where he can study and see pictures and find out things. Now,
please advise me about it."

"How's his health--his stomach?"

"I believe we've never spoken of it. That's hardly the point."

"Well, I call it a big point. Suppose he went off to New York and got
plumb ruined, the way I did--no eats, no sleeps. If you want my advice,
he ought to stay right here where everybody's healthy. He shouldn't be
foolish."

"Clarence!" Her eyes shone with impatience. "It isn't whether he's to go
or not. He's _going_, and he's to have money to keep him there till he
makes himself known. It's on that point I need advice."

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't savvy at first. You're to tell me what
to advise and I'm to advise it? Well, tell me what to say."

"Don't be stupid, dear--just for a moment, please. You're bound to
agree with me when you see his work. And you might offer to lend him the
money--my money, though he's not to know that. Or perhaps yo