affection too far, he frowned at her when he
went into the kitchen after washing the next morning, gruffly replying
when she wished him a cheery, "Good morning," and grasping her arms
when she attempted to kiss him.

He blushed, though, when her eyes reproached him.

"I ain't used to bein' mushed over," he told her. "We'll get along a
heap better if you cut out the kissin'."

"Why, Will!" she said, her lips trembling.

She set them though, instantly, and went about her duties, leaving
Sanderson to stand in the center of the room feeling like a brute.

They breakfasted in silence--almost. Sanderson saw her watching
him--covert glances that held not a little wonder and disappointment.
And then, when the meal was nearly finished, she looked at him with a
taunting half-smile.

"Didn't you sleep good, Will?"

Sanderson looked fairly at her. That "Will" was already an irritation
to him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he was
playing. He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he was
determined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent a
repetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sister
variety.

He didn't want to let her continue to show affection for him when he
knew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tike
murdering him.

"Look here, Mary," he said, coldly, "I've never cared a heap for the
name Bransford. That's why I changed my name to Sanderson. I never
liked to be called 'Will.' Hereafter I want you to call me
Sanderson--Deal Sanderson. Then mebbe I'll feel more like myself."

She did not answer, but her lips straightened and she sat very rigid.
It was plain to him that she was very much disappointed in him, and
that in her mind was the contrast between her brother of today and her
brother of yesterday.

She got up after a time, holding her head high, and left the room,
saying as she went out:

"Very well; your wishes shall be respected. But it seems to me that
the name Bransford is one be proud of!"

Sanderson grinned into his plate. He felt more decent now than he had
felt since arriving at the Double A. If he could continue to prevent
her from showing any affection for him--visible, at least--he would
feel that the deception he was practising was less criminal. And when
he went away, after settling the differences between Mary Bransford and
Dale, he would have less to reproach himself with.

He did not