'll talk reform, of course.
That's where your eloquence will come in, and the more you believe in it
while you're holding forth about the Republican party robbing the widow
and orphan--more particularly the farmer and the laborer--the better.
We'll promise the working-man a sort of sugar-coated socialism, but we
won't inspire him with any higher ideals than pecuniary profits, _if you
please_. That would mean content, and the end of the Democratic party.
Well, think it over. I must go. My little old woman doesn't like to sit
up late. Mind you drop in and see her the next time you are in town."

Gwynne rang for his guest's buggy, thanked him for his advice; then
ordered his horse and rode about the ranch half the night.

XIV

A fortnight later Isabel announced to Gwynne that she intended to give a
party and introduce him to the young people of Rosewater.

"All the girls want to know you, Anabel tells me, and as it is a relief
to hear that they are interested in something besides cards, and as
nobody else seems disposed to take the initiative, I have concluded to
play the _grande dame_ for a night. In a way it is my duty to introduce
you formally, although it would be more so if they had done anything for
me since my return. However--I will ask them for next Saturday evening
if you have nothing better to do."

"One day is quite the same as another to me," said Gwynne, dryly. "What
do you fancy are my evening engagements? I have not even begun to read
law with Mr. Leslie; he has gone off to southern California to see his
son. He says he is always restless in the autumn, as young people are in
the spring, but has promised me his attention before the middle of this
month."

They were rowing down the channel of the wider portion of the creek
towards Isabel's landing, their boat filled with spoil. The little
steamboat was winding proudly through the marsh, there were a dozen
sails in sight; from the south came an incessant sound of firing. The
distant mountains looked as hard as metal and there was a new crispness
in the air. Little rain had fallen, but it was no longer summer. Gwynne
had exchanged his khaki riding-clothes for corduroy; and Isabel's habit,
although still dust-colored, was made of cloth instead of pongee. To-day
they wore light covert coats over their canvas and rubber.

With the passing of the heat and the advent of the daily electric
breezes sweeping up the valleys from the sea, Gwynne felt a sl