As Angus drove homeward he was at first unable to adjust himself to actuality. He had given up all hope of retaining the ranch. The wrench of loss had been over. But now the ranch was his again, subject to the debt already existing, to keep if he chose.

But he realized that it would be folly to retain it as a ranch, to refuse a proposition which McGinity had just made amounting to a fifty-fifty partnership with the Airline in the project of a townsite. Again, no matter what his individual preference, he must think of others. In reality, his own individual interest in the ranch amounted to but one-third. Sooner or later there must be a division—an adjustment of shares between Jean, Turkey and himself. In justice to them he could not refuse an offer which promised more than he could ever hope to make or receive for the ranch as a ranch.

And so the ranch, as a ranch, was done. Its broad fields and pastures and broad stretches of timbered levels would be broken up, surveyed into building lots, pegged out with stakes, gridironed with embryonic streets. For a while it would lie raw, unsightly, ruined as a ranch, unmade as a town. And then people would come in. Shacks would spring up, stores with false fronts, all sorts of makeshifts which accompany construction days. Later would come permanence, better buildings, churches, schools, gardens, sidewalks. Where the Ranch had been would stand the Town. It was Progress, the history of the West since the first steel road adventured among the ancient buffalo trails. The old order was changing, but he, though young, was more of the old order than the new, because he had been bred in the former.

Faith touched his arm lightly.

"Tell me I'm awake. It seems like a dream."

He put his arm around her and she snuggled in the crook of it, leaning comfortably against his shoulder. He pulled the team to a walk.

"Now say it yourself."

"Say what? How did you know I wanted to say something? But it's nothing particular. It's just—everything!"

"It's sure a surprise to me. Why, only yesterday I hinted to Chetwood that it was doubtful if he could support a wife—and to-day he bids in my whole ranch." He laughed, but with little mirth, for the sense of obligation lay heavy on him.

"I wonder if Jean knew?"

"I don't think so. Why, she wanted him to homestead—said he'd have to make good before she'd marry him."

"Jean is so practical!" sighed his wife. "Now I'd never have said anything like that to you. I'm glad that Braden didn't get the ranch. Odious beast!" Angus chuckled. "Well, he is!"

"Easily! I never happened to think of that particular descriptive phrase, though."

"I don't want to hear your descriptive phrases. He's a horrible man. I shudder when he looks at me. He—he seems to be thinking evil things about me—plotting—Oh, I don't know. Did you see his face when he saw that he would be overbidden? It turned white, and then green. Oh, you may laugh! I saw it."

"It was a jolt for him. He had it working like an oiled lock up to then. Some day I will play even with him."

"He didn't accomplish his end. He's beneath your notice."

"No man who tried to hand me what he did is beneath my notice," he said grimly. "Yes, I'll settle with him some day."

"I thought I might see your brother at the sale."

"No, he wouldn't go near it. I'll be glad when I can hand him over his share to do what he likes with."

"It's odd that I've never seen him. Why don't you make it up with him, Angus?"

Angus' mouth tightened grimly. "Make it up! Now, I'll tell you something, Faith, which you must never repeat, even to Jean: I believe he is in cahoots with Braden."

"Oh, surely not!" she cried, and when he told her the grounds of his belief she was unconvinced. "There's some mistake, Angus."

"It's not on my part. I'm through with him—except to give him his share. He shall have that, to the last cent. He shall not say I did not play fair with him."

"You would play fair with every one," she told him. "I know that."

His arm tightened for an instant by way of acknowledgment. But he found her words only just. To the best of his ability he had tried to play fair all his life. On that score he could not reproach himself at all.

They drove up to the ranch, and at the sound of wheels Jean ran out. She had been waiting, regretting that she had not accompanied them, anxious to know the worst and have it over.

"Well, dear!" said Faith tantalizingly.

"You know what. Who bought the ranch? Was it Braden?"

"No," Faith replied, "it was a young man named Chetwood."

"Wha-a-t!" cried Jean in tones which left no doubt of her utter amazement. "Oh, stop joking! This is serious."

"He bought it," Angus assured her.

"But—but he couldn't!" Jean exclaimed incredulously. "Angus, you know he couldn't. Why he's broke! He's working for you for wages."

"Just what the old sheriff said," Angus laughed. "But it's straight, Jean. He bid the ranch in for twenty-four thousand."

"But where did he get the money?"

"I don't know. But he had it."

"Then," Jean flashed, "I'll never speak to him again—never! To buy the ranch, your ranch, our ranch—at a sale! Oh, the miserable, contemptible—"

"Hi, hold on!" Angus interrupted. "You don't understand. He didn't buy it for himself; he bought it in for us—to save it. He's a white man, all right, Jean."

"I don't care what he bought the ranch for!" Jean cried. "And he's not a white man. He's a sneak. He deceived me. He said his remittance had stopped. He let me make a fool of myself advising him to homestead and get a place of his own, and work hard, so that—so that—"

"So that you could be married!" Angus chuckled.

"Ye—yes," Jean confessed, and her brother roared. "Oh, you think it funny, do you? Well, he won't. I never want to see him. I won't see him."

"But, Jean dear, listen," Faith put in, for she saw that to Jean there was nothing humorous in the situation. The girl was deeply offended, bitterly angry.

"I don't want to listen," Jean snapped. "I don't want to be rude, Faith, but he—he lied to me. He led me to believe that he was poor, that he hadn't a dollar. He was playing with me, amusing himself, laughing at me when I was—oh, I can't talk about it!"

"Oh, shucks, old girl!" said Angus. "You're going into the air about nothing. You ought to be glad he isn't broke."

"Ought I?" Jean retorted. "Well, I'm not. He wasn't straight with me, he wasn't fair. He talked about a little cottage, and wanted me to marry him right away, and—and—"

"And share his poverty," Angus grinned. "Weren't you game, sis?"

"Angus!" Faith warned. But Jean's cheeks flamed.

"No, I wasn't," she replied bitterly. "I told him he would have to make good first, if you want to know, not because I didn't love him, poor as I thought he was, but because I thought it would make him work in earnest. Can you understand that, Angus Mackay? Do you think, after telling him that, I'd marry him now that he has money? I'd rather die! And—and I half believe I want to."

With which tragic ultimatum Miss Jean turned and fled. Angus gaped after her and at his wife.

"Well, of all darn fool girls—" he exclaimed.

"You don't understand. You made it worse."

"Why, what did I—"

"Never mind now. I'll talk to her after a while, but in her place I'd feel much the same. I only hope she will get over it."

"Of course she will. Rot! She fooled herself about Chetwood, same as I did. Go and make her behave sensibly."

"You don't know a blessed thing about girls," his wife told him.

"Well, I'll bet if you let the two of them get together they'll make it up. She'll go for him red-headed for five minutes, then it'll be over."

But Faith vetoed this simple plan. She saw that Jean's pride had been deeply hurt. When Chetwood appeared, later, he met the surprise of his young life. He did not see Jean. Faith took the matter into her own hands.

"But—but, hang it," he exclaimed when the situation was made clear to him, "it's all a beastly, rotten misunderstanding. I mean to say it's all wrong. Jean—why, bless the girl, I never dreamed of offending her."

"But you've done it. Do you mind answering one or two questions?"

"I'll tell you anything," Chetwood replied with fervor.

"Well—they may be impertinent. Have you much money? And is it yours, or—remittances?"

"'Much money' is rather a relative term. But I have enough to live on, and it is mine."

"Then what on earth made you work as a ranch hand?"

"Jean did. She had a strong prejudice against remittance men, and she classed me as one of them. I was an idler, and she rather despised me. Of course she didn't tell me so, but I could see how the land lay. So I made up my mind to remove that objection, anyway. The best place to do it seemed to be where she could see me working, and I really wanted to know something about ranching. Struck me as a good joke, being paid for what I was perfectly willing to pay for myself. Then I thought I might as well live up to the part and really throw myself on my own resources, which I did. I've been living on my wages. But of course I had to have some adequate explanation. I couldn't tell Angus I wanted to live on the ranch to make love to his sister. Now, could I? So I merely let it be understood that my remittances had stopped. May not have been exactly cricket, but I can't see that I'm very much to blame. If I could see Jean—"

"Not now. She refused to marry you till you were in a position to support a wife. That's the bitter part of it."

"But I am able to support one."

"Yes, but don't you see having refused to marry you until you had made a little money she won't put herself in the position of doing so now for fear you or somebody might think the money had something to do with it."

Chetwood took his bewildered head in his hands.

"O, my sainted Aunt Jemima!" he murmured. "In the picturesque language of the country this sure beats—er—I mean it's a bit too thick for me. She didn't approve of me because I was an idler and presumably a remittance man. Very well. I cut off my income and became a hired man. Then she wouldn't marry me because I was. Now she won't see me or speak to me because I'm not. Kind lady, having been a girl yourself, will you please tell me what I am to do about it?"

Faith laughed at his woebegone countenance. "The whole trouble is that you weren't frank with her. What was play to you—a good joke—was the most serious thing in life to her. While she was considering and planning in earnest for the future you were laughing at her. Perhaps a man can't appreciate it; but a woman finds such things hard to forgive."

"I'll apologize," Chetwood said. "I'll eat crow. Mrs. Angus, like an angel, do help me with the future Lady Chet—er—I mean—"

"What!" Faith cried.

"Oh, Lord!" Chetwood ejaculated, "there go the beans. Nothing, nothing! I don't know what I'm saying, really!"

"Don't you dare to deceive me!" Faith admonished sternly. "Lady Chetwood! What do you mean?"

"But it's not my fault," the luckless young man protested. "I can't help it. It's hereditary. When the old boy died—"

"What old boy?"

"My uncle, Sir Eustace. I was named after him. And I couldn't help that."

"Do you mean to tell me," Faith accused him severely, "that on top of all your deceptions you have a title? Oh, Jean will never forgive this!"

"But it's not much of a title," its owner palliated. "It's just a little old one. Nothing gaudy about it, like these new brewers'. It's considered quite respectable, really, at home, and nobody objects. It—it runs in the family, like red hair or—er—insanity."

"Insanity!" Faith gasped. "Good heavens, is there that? Oh, poor Jean! That explains—"

"No, no!" Chetwood protested desperately. "I didn't mean that. Quite the contrary. Not a trace. Why, dash it all, there isn't even genius!"

Whereat, with a wild shriek, Faith collapsed weakly in her chair and laughed until she wept. "Oh, oh, oh!" she gasped feebly, wiping her eyes, "this is lovely—I mean it's awful. Mr. Chetwood—I mean Sir Eustace—"

"'Bill!'" the object of her mirth amended. "Poor Bill. Poor old Bill! Dear, kind, pretty lady, have a heart!"

"A heart! If it gets any more shocks like this—But what am I to tell Jean? Here's a poor country girl and a noble knight—"

"Don't rub it in. You see Sir Eustace was alive when I came over here. When I heard of his death I said nothing to anybody, because there are a lot of silly asses who seem to think a title makes some difference in a man. And then I was afraid some beastly newspaper would print some rot about my working as a ranch hand."

"Well, I don't know what's to be done about it," Faith admitted; "but I do know that now isn't the time for you to see Jean. Really, I think the best thing you can do is to go away for a week or two."