untry. Thea told him, as she clambered up, that she
cared a good deal more about riding in that seat than about going to
Denver. Ray was never so companionable and easy as when he sat chatting
in the lookout of his little house on wheels. Good stories came to him,
and interesting recollections. Thea had a great respect for the reports
he had to write out, and for the telegrams that were handed to him at
stations; for all the knowledge and experience it must take to run a
freight train.

Giddy, down in the car, in the pauses of his work, made himself
agreeable to Mrs. Kronborg.

"It's a great rest to be where my family can't get at me, Mr. Giddy,"
she told him. "I thought you and Ray might have some housework here for
me to look after, but I couldn't improve any on this car."

"Oh, we like to keep her neat," returned Giddy glibly, winking up at
Ray's expressive back. "If you want to see a clean ice-box, look at this
one. Yes, Kennedy always carries fresh cream to eat on his oatmeal. I'm
not particular. The tin cow's good enough for me."

"Most of you boys smoke so much that all victuals taste alike to you,"
said Mrs. Kronborg. "I've got no religious scruples against smoking, but
I couldn't take as much interest cooking for a man that used tobacco. I
guess it's all right for bachelors who have to eat round."

Mrs. Kronborg took off her hat and veil and made herself comfortable.
She seldom had an opportunity to be idle, and she enjoyed it. She could
sit for hours and watch the sage-hens fly up and the jack-rabbits dart
away from the track, without being bored. She wore a tan bombazine
dress, made very plainly, and carried a roomy, worn, mother-of-the-family
handbag.

Ray Kennedy always insisted that Mrs. Kronborg was "a fine-looking
lady," but this was not the common opinion in Moonstone. Ray had lived
long enough among the Mexicans to dislike fussiness, to feel that there
was something more attractive in ease of manner than in absentminded
concern about hairpins and dabs of lace. He had learned to think that
the way a woman stood, moved, sat in her chair, looked at you, was more
important than the absence of wrinkles from her skirt. Ray had, indeed,
such unusual perceptions in some directions, that one could not help
wondering what he would have been if he had ever, as he said, had "half
a chance."

He was right; Mrs. Kronborg was a fine-looking woman. She was short and
square, but her head was a real head, not a