Dinky-Dunk is back. At least he sleeps and breakfasts at home, but the rest of the time he is over at Casa Grande getting his crop cut. He’s too busy, I fancy, to pay much attention to our mutual lack of attention. But the compact was made, and he seems willing to comply with it. The only ones who fail to regard it are the children. I hadn’t counted on them. There are times, accordingly, when they somewhat complicate the situation. It didn’t take them long to get re-acquainted with their daddy. I could see, from the first, that he intended to be very considerate and kind with them, for I’m beginning to realize that he gets a lot of fun out of the kiddies. Pee-Wee will go to him, now, from anybody. He goes with an unmistakable expression of “Us-men-have-got-to-stick-together” satisfaction on his little face.

But Dinky-Dunk’s intimacies, I’m glad to say, do not extend beyond the children. Three days ago, though, he asked me about turning his hogs in on my land. It doesn’t sound disturbingly emotional. But if what’s left of my crop, of course, is any use to Duncan, he’s welcome to it....

I looked for that letter which I wrote to Dinky-Dunk several weeks ago, looked for it for an hour and more this morning, but haven’t succeeded in finding it. I was sure that I’d put it between the pages of the old ranch journal. But it’s not there.

Last night before I turned in I read all of Meredith’s Modern Love. It was nice to remember that once, at Box Hill, I’d felt the living clasp of the hand which had written that wonderful series of poems. But never before did I quite understand that elaborated essay in love-moods. It came like a friendly voice, like an understanding comrade who knows the world better than I do, and brought me comfort, even though the sweetness of it was slightly acidulated, like a lemon-drop. And as for myself, I suppose I’ll continue to