as unabashed.

"I hope you will tell Miss Lucy," he said deferentially, "that on
account of my unsettled life I have not ordered my mail forwarded for
some time." He paused and for the moment seemed to be considering
some further explanation; then his manner changed abruptly.

"I believe you mentioned a matter of business," he remarked bluffly,
and the judge came back to earth with a start. His mind had wandered
back a year or more to the mysterious disappearance of this same
self-contained young man from his father's house, not three blocks
from his own comfortable home. There had been a servant's rumor that
he had sent back a letter or two postmarked "Bowie, Arizona"--but old
Colonel Hardy had said never a word.

"Er--yes," he assented absently, "but--well, I declare," he exclaimed
helplessly, "I've quite forgotten what it was about."

"Won't you sit down, then?" suggested Hardy, indicating the edge of
the board walk with a courtly sweep of the hand. "This rain will make
good feed for you up around the Four Peaks--I believe it was of your
ranch there that you wished to speak."

Judge Ware settled down against a convenient post and caught his
breath, meanwhile regarding his companion curiously.

"Yes, that's it," he said. "I wanted to talk with you about my ranch,
but I swear I'll have to wait till Creede comes back, now."

"Very well," answered Hardy easily; "we can talk about home, then.
How is Miss Lucy succeeding with her art--is she still working at the
Institute?"

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed the judge, quite mollified by the inquiry.
"Indeed she is, and doing as well as any of them. She had a landscape
hung at the last exhibit, that was very highly praised, even by
Mathers, and you know how hard he is to please. Tupper Browne won the
prize, but I think Lucy's was twice the picture--kind of soft and
sunshiny, you know--it made you think of home, just to look at it."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said Hardy, looking up the ragged
street a little wistfully. "I kind of lose track of things down here,
knocking around from place to place." He seated himself wearily on the
edge of the sidewalk and drummed with his sinewy white hands against a
boot leg. "But it's a great life, sure," he observed, half to himself.
"And by the way, Mr. Ware," he continued, "if it's all the same to you
I wish you wouldn't say anything to your foreman about my past life.
Not that there is anything disgraceful about it, but there is