t to meet him face to face.

It was annoying for her to guess that Stillwell had something to say in
Stewart's defense. The old cattleman was evidently distressed. Several
times he had tried to open a conversation with Madeline relating to
Stewart; she had evaded him until the last time, when his persistence
had brought a cold and final refusal to hear another word about the
foreman. Stillwell had been crushed.

As days passed Stewart remained at the ranch without his old
faithfulness to his work. Madeline was not moved to a kinder frame of
mind to see him wandering dejectedly around. It hurt her, and because
it hurt her she grew all the harder. Then she could not help hearing
snatches of conversation which strengthened her suspicions that Stewart
was losing his grip on himself, that he would soon take the downward
course again. Verification of her own suspicion made it a belief, and
belief brought about a sharp conflict between her generosity and some
feeling that she could not name. It was not a question of justice
or mercy or sympathy. If a single word could have saved Stewart from
sinking his splendid manhood into the brute she had recoiled from at
Chiricahua, she would not have spoken it. She could not restore him to
his former place in her regard; she really did not want him at the
ranch at all. Once, considering in wonder her knowledge of men, she
interrogated herself to see just why she could not overlook Stewart's
transgression. She never wanted to speak to him again, or see him, or
think of him. In some way, through her interest in Stewart, she had come
to feel for herself an inexplicable thing close to scorn.

A telegram from Douglas, heralding the coming of Alfred and a minister,
put an end to Madeline's brooding, and she shared something of Florence
Kingsley's excitement. The cowboys were as eager and gossipy as girls.
It was arranged to have the wedding ceremony performed in Madeline's
great hall-chamber, and the dinner in the cool, flower-scented patio.

Alfred and his minister arrived at the ranch in the big white car. They
appeared considerably wind-blown. In fact, the minister was breathless,
almost sightless, and certainly hatless. Alfred, used as he was to wind
and speed, remarked that he did not wonder at Nels's aversion to riding
a fleeting cannon-ball. The imperturbable Link took off his cap and
goggles and, consulting his watch, made his usual apologetic report to
Madeline, deploring the fact