est he could do! He had no chance to come here openly--not
a chance in the world. Maybe he only wanted to say good-by--oh, how do
you know?"

"Did he say good-by or good morning in that last letter, Bonnie Bell?" I
ast her. "Not that it makes much difference either way."

"I won't tell you what he said, Curly," she flared up at me now. "I only
say he did the best he could. He asked for his chance--that's all."

"His chance! The hired man of the worst enemy we got! His chance! His
chance! What chance has he give you? How fair is he playing the game
where all your happiness is up? Oh, Bonnie, shore you don't care for
him?" says I. "Now do you?"

She didn't say a word and I turned toward the door.

"Where you going, Curly?" says she, coming after me.

"I'm going downtown," I says to her.

"Why?"

"To see your pa," says I. "I got to tell him all about this, and do it
now."

She made a quick run at me then, and her arms come around my neck again.

"Oh, Curly! Curly!" she says; and she was crying now. "Oh, what have I
done? It'll kill dad if anything of this gets out--I couldn't stand it.
I can't stand to think of it, Curly. I can't! I can't!"

"Why can't you, Bonnie?" says I.

"Because, Curly"--she got me by the arms again and she was crying
hard--"because---- I'll have to tell you--I'll have to, Curly. I can't
help it! I didn't want it to happen--I fought it to keep it from
happening as long as I could--I didn't want it to be this way. It was
hard--so awfully hard. I tried every way I could; but I can't--I can't
_help_ it, Curly! I can't! I can't! It's no use!" She just run on, over
and over.

"What is it, Bonnie?" says I. "Do you love him?"

"Yes, yes; it's true! I do, Curly--I love him!"

XXI

HER PA'S WAY OF THINKING

"Near as I can figure, Curly," says Old Man Wright to me soon after what
had happened between me and Bonnie Bell--"near as I can figure, Old Man
Wisner's been advertising that the old Circle Arrow Range is a great
little place for the honest granger to raise bananas, pineapples and
other tropical fruits."

"It ain't," says I, "except tomatoes--and them in tin cans."

"The honest yeoman," says he, "according to Old Man Wisner's
description, he don't never have to eat anything as common as bread and
butter, not after he's bought some of that land at four hundred and
fifty dollars a acre. He lives after that time on bird tongues and
omelet souflay, and all he has to do is to se