"Mr. Gore came back with you," he said to Mariquita as she joined him. Gore had gone round to the stables with his horse.

"Yes. As he came back from Maxwell he passed the place where I was sitting, and we came on together—after talking for a time."

Mariquita did not think her father was cross-examining her. Nor was he. He was not given to inquisitiveness, and seldom scrutinized her doings.

"Mr. Gore," she continued, "went to Maxwell for the sake of going to Mass."

"So he is a Catholic!" And Mariquita observed with pleasure that her father spoke in a tone of satisfaction. He had never before appeared to be in the least concerned with the religion of any of the men about the place.

That night, after Sarella and Mariquita had gone to bed, Don Joaquin had another satisfaction. He and Gore were alone, smoking; all the large party ate together, but the cowboys went off to their own quarters after meals. Only Don Joaquin, his daughter, Sarella and Gore slept in the dwelling-house. So high up above sea-level, it was cold enough at night, and the log fire was pleasant.

What gave him satisfaction was that Gore asked him about the price of a range, and whether a suitable one was to be had anywhere near.

"It would not be," Don Joaquin bade him note, "the price of the range only. Without some capital it would be throwing money away to buy one."

"Of course. What would range and stock and all cost?"

"That would depend on the size of the range, and the amount of stock it would bear. And also on whether the range were very far out, like this one. If it were near a town and the railway, it would cost more to buy."

Gore quite understood that, and Don Joaquin spoke of "Blaine's" range. "It lies nearer Maxwell than this. But it is not so large, and Blaine has never made much of it—he had not capital enough to put on it the stock it should have had, and he was never the right man. A townsman in all his bones, and his wife towny too. And their girls worse. He wants to clear. He will never do good there."

The two men discussed the matter at some length. It seemed to the elder of them that Gore would seriously entertain the plan, and had the money for the purchase.

"I have thought sometimes," said Joaquin, "of buying Blaine's myself."

"Of course, I would not think of it if you wanted it. I would not even make any inquiry—that would be sending the price up."

"Yes. But, if you decide to go in for it, I shall not mind. I have land enough and stock enough, and work enough. I should have bought it if I had a son growing up."

It was satisfactory to Don Joaquin to find that Gore could buy a large range and afford capital to stock it. If he went on with such a purchase it would prove him "substantial as to conditions." And he was a Catholic, also a good thing.

Only Sarella should be a Catholic also. "So you went down to Maxwell to go to Mass," he said, just as they were putting out their pipes to go to bed. "That was not out of place. Perhaps one Saturday we may go down together."

Gore said, of course, that he would be glad of his company.

"It would not be myself only," Don Joaquin explained; "I should take my daughter and her cousin."

When Gore had an opportunity of telling this to Mariquita she was full of gladness.

"See," she said, "how strong good example is!"

"Is your cousin, then, also a Catholic?" he asked, surprised without knowing why.

"Oh, no! My father regrets it, and would like her to be one. That shows he thinks of religion more than you might have guessed."

Gore thought that it showed something else as well. It did not, however, seem to have occurred to Mariquita that her father wanted to marry her cousin.

Sarella strongly approved the idea of going down, all four of them together, to Maxwell some Saturday.

"Of course," she said, "it would be for two nights, at least. He couldn't expect us to ride back on the Sunday. It will be a treat—we must insist on starting early enough to get down there before the shops shut. I daresay there will be a theatre."

Mariquita, suddenly, after five years, promised the chance of hearing Mass and going to Holy Communion, was not surprised that Sarella should only think of it as an outing; she was not a Catholic. But she thought it as well to give Sarella a hint.

"I expect," she said, "father will be hoping that you would come to Mass with us."

"I? Do you think that? He knows I am not a Catholic—why should he care?"

"Oh, he would care. I am sure of that."

Sarella laughed.

"You sly puss! I believe you want to convert me," she said, shaking her head jocularly at Mariquita.

"Of course I should be glad if you were a Catholic. Any Catholic would."

"I daresay you would. But your father never troubles himself about such things—he leaves them to the women. He wouldn't care."

"Yes, he would. You must not judge my father—he thinks without speaking; he is a very silent person."

Sarella laughed again.

"Not so silent as you imagine," she said slyly; "he talks to me, my dear."

"Very likely. I daresay you are easier to talk to than I am. For I too am silent—I have not seen towns and things like you."

"It does make a difference," Sarella admitted complacently. Then, with more covert interest than she showed: "If you really think he would like me to go with you to Mass, I should be glad to please him. After all, one should encourage him in this desire to resume his religious duties. Perhaps he would take us again."

"I am quite sure he would like you to hear Mass with us," Mariquita repeated slowly.

"Then I will do so. You had better tell me about it—one would not like to do the wrong thing."

Perhaps Mariquita told her more about it than Sarella had intended.

"She is tremendously in earnest, anyway," Sarella decided; "she can talk on that eagerly enough. I must say," she thought, good-naturedly, "I am glad her father's giving her the chance of doing it. I had no idea she felt about it like that. She is good—to care so much and never say a word of what it is to her not to have it. I never thought there was an ounce of religion about the place. She evidently thinks her father cares, too. I should want some persuading of that. But she may be right in saying he expects me to go to his church. She is very positive. And some men are like that—their women must do what they do. They leave church alone for twenty years, but when they begin to go to church their women must go at once. And the Don is masterful enough. Perhaps he thinks it's time he began to remember his soul. If so, he is sure to begin by bothering about other people's souls. She thinks a lot more of him than he thinks of her. In his way, though, he is just as Spanish as she is; I suppose that's why I'm to go to Mass."