Her uncle looked down into the upturned, eager face. “You seem to have gone over this pretty thoroughly in your own mind, Bl--Elizabeth.” “I have, Uncle Cliff.” “Well, you and I’ll talk things over another time; I’ve some business to see to now. I suppose things’ll have to go on, even if you do intend to sell--in six years.” “I wish you’d try to see my side of it, Uncle Cliff.” “I’m going to--after a while. Just now, I can’t get beyond the fact that you hate the Blue Bonnet Ranch. I hope your father doesn’t know it!” And Mr. Ashe turned away. Below the house, leaning against the low fence enclosing the oblong piece of ground called “the garden,” Mr. Ashe found Uncle Joe Terry, ranch foreman, and his chief adviser in the difficult task of bringing up his orphan niece. Uncle Joe was smoking placidly, his eyes on the wild riot of color which was one of the principal characteristics of Blue Bonnet’s garden. “Tell you what,” he said, as Mr. Ashe came up, “this here place needs weeding. Blue Bonnet ain’t been keeping an eye on Miguel lately.” Blue Bonnet’s uncle stood a moment looking down at the neglected garden. “Yes,” he said, “and it’s not only the garden, Joe, that’s been left to itself lately.” “She ain’t been out on Firefly this two weeks,” Uncle Joe commented. “What’s wrong, Cliff?” “She wants to go East.” “So that’s it? Well, I reckon it’s natural--wants to run with the other young folks, I suppose?” “But--Joe, she says she hates--the ranch.” Uncle Joe puffed at his pipe thoughtfully. “Hm--so she says that? She always was an outspoken little piece, Cliff.” “She says, too, that she means to sell.” “My lady must be a bit excited. Well, it won’t be to-morrow, Cliff, and a whole lot of things can happen in six years. You just give my lady her head; she’s looking to be crossed, and she’s all braced up to pull the other way. All you want to do is to go with her a bit.” “It’s a pretty big proposition--sending her East,” Mr. Ashe said. “Oh, she’ll pick up a lot of tomfool notions, most likely,” Uncle Joe admitted, “and a whole heap of others that’ll come in mighty handy one of these days. You just send her ’long back to those folks of her mother’s and quit worrying.” That night Mr. Ashe wrote a letter to Blue Bonnet’s grandmother. He said nothing to Blue Bonnet herself about it, however. Possibly Mrs. Clyde would not care to assume the charge of her granddaughter. In any case, it would be well to have the matter settled before mentioning it. Then one evening, not a fortnight later, Uncle Joe, coming home from the little post-office town, twenty miles away, tossed him several letters. “Postmarked Woodford,” the older man said. “Looks like sentence was about to be pronounced.” Five minutes more and Mr. Ashe knew how hard he had been hoping against hope these last two weeks. “Well?” Uncle Joe asked; and the other looked up to find him still sitting motionless in his saddle.