close he was to Molly's
moods and ideals, making him typical of the East as against the West.

"He's a nice boy," she said. "He has always had things his own way. He's
partly spoiled, I'm afraid. He'd have been a lot nicer if he had been
brought up on a ranch. I've told him so."

"Why?"

"Life's quieter out here, Sandy. It's bigger somehow. Donald only
pleases himself. He--they don't seem to have real families out East,
Sandy. I don't quite mean that, but as I have seen them. The Keiths.
They are kind but they don't belong just to each other. They have their
own ways and none of them do anything together. He's been nice to
me--Donald. So have Mr. and Mrs. Keith."

Sandy had no effort imagining Donald being nice to Molly, contrasted
with the other girls who just amused themselves.

"I'd cut a pore figger at tennis, I reckon," he said. "Or golf."

"So would Donald breaking a bronco," she laughed. "He's keen to ride
one, to see a round-up. Why, Sandy, they think life is wonderful out
here. And it is."

He wondered how much of her enthusiasm was lasting, how much came of the
affectionate gratitude she showed them constantly, how much she thought
of the swifter life she was going back to presently at the end of the
month--with one week gone out of the four. He wrestled with the
temptation to ask her not to go back, or to have Miss Nicholson remain
on the ranch to complete the education that was steadily widening--as he
saw it--the gap between them.

Sandy was not ignorant. His speech was mostly dialect, born of
environment. He wrote correctly enough, aided by the dictionary he had
acquired. He had business capacity, executive ability, strong manhood.
He read increasingly, his mind was plastic. But these things he
belittled. And he was her guardian. Though he knew he might win her
promise to stay easily enough, he did not wish to exercise his
authority. It might be misunderstood, even by Molly herself, later. He
could not force his hand in this vital matter, as he handled other
things. And yet....

* * * * *

Sam had stopped playing, Kate Nicholson was weaving chords in music
unknown to those who listened, save that it seemed to speak some common
language that had been forgotten since childhood. The fire shifted,
there was silence in the big room. Mormon sat shading his face, Miranda
Bailey beside him, her knitting idle. Sam lounged in a shady corner near
the harmonium. Grit lay asl