to me,
thinking it belonged to Robert. But the handwriting is not his, I know,
and I thought you might recognize it. There is no name on the fly-leaf."
She handed her a thin, long, morocco-covered notebook, which opened of
itself, as she laid it in the young lady's hand, at a place where the
leaves were separated by a withered flower. It was a long-dried mountain
heart's-ease, and, despite her efforts, her cheeks reddened consciously.
The writing on the pages was in verse and she recognized the bold, free
style at a glance. She had commented frequently on his firm, legible
script when auditing his accounts in company with her brother. And once
he had sent her a little formal note, asking if she had any commissions
for him to execute in Denver, where he had gone on some private business
shortly after her overtures at reconciliation. She had eagerly grasped
the olive branch so chillingly extended, and his matching of the silk
floss samples she sent him in reply was entirely to her satisfaction. It
is a question if she would have appreciated the grim humor of her
commission had she known his real mission to the capital city. He had
been informed, on more or less reliable authority, that Matlock had been
seen there a few days previously! The report proved to be false, and the
note was now enveloping a cluster of withered heart's-ease in her
sandalwood jewel case.

Without hesitation she identified the handwriting. "I think it must
belong to Mr. Douglass;" she said frankly, meeting her mother's eyes
without a particle of indecision. "I am quite familiar with his writing,
having helped Bobbie in auditing his accounts. And this flower, I think,
is one I gave him some months ago."

Mrs. Carter's eyes snapped with a fierce pride. She put her arm tenderly
about the velvety neck.

"Kiss me, dearie! You are very like your father, and he was the bravest
man God ever made!" At the threshold she turned; "I think it entirely
permissible--indeed, I much desire that you read that verse."

For the first time since her coming to the ranch, Grace Carter turned
the key in the door lock; then she laid the notebook on her dressing
table and completed her preparations for rest. Finally, she sat down on
the edge of the bed and opened the book. Carefully she removed the
flower and laid it on a silk handkerchief, folded for its reception. For
a time she sat looking at it reminiscently; then with a visible effort
she turned to the clearly-writt