his brain was fire and his pistol went off by itself. The sting had been
extracted from California and she had settled down to practical
consideration of her vast resources; and in the comfortable assurance
that there was enough for all. Gwynne had not seen a beggar nor a pauper
since his arrival.

He placed his advertisements with both the local newspapers, to avoid
the ill-will of either, posted others to the San Francisco press, and
was riding down Main Street in order to have a closer look at the long
hitching-rail lined on either side with another solid mass of horses and
vehicles, when he caught sight of Isabel driving a buggy and evidently
searching for an empty post. He laid aside his grievance and made his
way to her side. She quite beamed with welcome, and they disentangled
themselves into a side street, where there were empty posts.

"I only got home at half-past eleven last night," she informed him. "The
boat was three hours late in starting, and when I finally made up my
mind to come by train the last had gone. So I overslept this morning or
I should have gone out to see you. But I meant to telephone you from
here and ask you to come out for the first duck-shooting--"

"Duck-shooting!" Gwynne forgot the grievance.

"The season opens to-day--the fifteenth of October. I had meant really
to ask you for the first thing this morning. Never mind, we have plenty
of time, and you will not have to go home for anything. Just wait here
until I do my errands."

He tied his horse next to hers and sat down in the shade on a chair
provided by a friendly store-keeper. In less than half an hour she
returned, and they started for Old Inn. Isabel had never seemed so
charming to him as they rode slowly out of the town and along the dusty
road. Smiling and sparkling, she asked him rapid eager questions about
his ranch, his plans, his comforts, whom he had met, how he had passed
his days and evenings. The truth was she had practically forgotten him,
and her conscience smote her. Her week in San Francisco had waxed to a
fortnight, for she had enjoyed herself far more than was usual in the
company of her relatives. Lyster Stone was one of the most agreeable of
men when debts were not more than usually pressing, and as he had just
painted a drop curtain and sold a picture for a considerable sum, he had
replenished his own elaborate wardrobe, given his wife a new frock,
silenced the loudest of his creditors, and thought it worth