Susie has promised to stay with us until after Christmas. And the holidays, I realize, are only a few weeks away. Struthers is knitting a sweater of flaming red and rather grimly acknowledged, when I pinned her down, that it was for Whinstane Sandy. There was a snow-flurry Sunday, and Gershom took Susie riding in the old cutter, scratching grittily along the half-covered trails but apparently enjoying it. My poor little Poppsy, who rather idolizes Gershom, is transparently jealous of his attentions to Susie. Yet Gershom, I know, is nice to Susie and nothing more. He is still my loyal but carefully restrained knight. It’s a shame, I suppose, to bobweasel him the way I occasionally do. But I can’t quite help it. His goody-goodiness is as provocative to my baser nature as a red flag to an Andulasian bull. And a woman who was once reckoned as a heart-breaker has to keep her hand in with something. I’ve got to convince myself that the last shot hasn’t gone from the locker which Duncan 246 Argyll McKail once rifled. I spoiled Gershom’s supper for him the other night by asking what it was made some people have such a mysterious influence over other people. And I caught him up short, last Sunday morning, when he tried to argue that I was a sort of paragon in petticoats.

“Don’t you run away with the idea I’m that kind of an angel,” I promptly assured him. “I’m an outlaw, from saddle to sougan, and I can buck like a bear fightin’ bees. I’m a she-devil crow-hopping around in skirts. And I could bu’st every commandment slap-bang across my knee, once I got started, and leave a trail of crime across the fair face of nature that would make an old Bow-Gun vaquero’s back-hair stand up. I’m just a woman, Gershom, a little lonely and a little loony, and there’s so much backed-up bad in me that once the dam gives way there’ll be a hell-roaring old whoop-up along these dusty old trails!”

Gershom turned white.

“But there’s your little ones to think of,” he quaveringly reminded me.

“Yes, there’s my little ones to think of,” I echoed, wondering where I’d heard that familiar old refrain before. My bark, after all, is much worse than my 247 bite. About all I can do is take things out in talk. I’m only a faded beauty, brooding over my antique adventures as a heart-breaker. But I know of one heart I’d still like to break—if I had the power. No; not break; but bend up to the cracking point!