“I suppose you've labeled THAT a 'Joke--please laugh here,'” sighed Miss Whitmore, plaintively, climbing gingerly down. CHAPTER IV. -- An Ideal Picture. “I guess I'll go down to Denson's to-day,” said J. G. at the breakfast table one morning. “Maybe we can get that grass widow to come and keep house for us.” “I don't want any old grass widow to keep house,” protested Della. “I'm getting along well enough, so long as Patsy bakes the bread, and meat, and cake, and stuff. It's just fun to keep house. The only trouble is, there isn't half enough to keep me busy. I'm going to get a license to practice medicine, so if there's any sickness around I can be of some use. You say it's fifty miles to the nearest doctor. But that needn't make a grass widow necessary. I can keep house--it looks better than when I came, and you know it.” Which remark would have hurt the feelings of several well-meaning cow-punchers, had they overheard it. “Oh, I ain't finding fault with your housekeeping--you do pretty well for a green hand. But Patsy'll have to go with the round-up when it starts, and what men I keep on the ranch will have to eat with us. That's the way I've been used to fixing things; I was never so good I couldn't eat at the same table with my men; if they wasn't fit for my company I fired 'em and got fellows that was. I've had this bunch a good long while, now. You can do all right with just me, but you couldn't cook for two or three men; you can't cook good enough, even if it wasn't too much work.” J. G. had a blunt way of stating disagreeable facts, occasionally. “Very well, get your grass widow by all means,” retorted she with much wasted dignity. “She's a swell cook, and a fine housekeeper, and shell keep yuh from getting lonesome. She's good company, the Countess is.” He grinned when he said it “I'll have Chip ketch up the creams, and you get ready and go along with us. It'll give you a chance to size up the kind uh neighbors yuh got.” There was real pleasure in driving swiftly over the prairie land, through the sweet, spring sunshine, and Miss Whitmore tingled with enthusiasm till they drove headlong into a deep coulee which sheltered the Denson family. “This road is positively dangerous!” she exclaimed when they reached a particularly steep place and Chip threw all his weight upon the brake. “We'll get the Countess in beside yuh, coming back, and then yuh won't rattle around in the seat so much. She's good and solid--just hang onto her and you'll be all right,” said J. G. “If I don't like her looks--and I know I won't--I'll get into the front seat and you can hang onto her yourself, Mr. J. G. Whitmore.” Chip, who had been silent till now, glanced briefly over his shoulder. “It's a cinch you'll take the front seat,” he remarked, laconically. “J. G., if you hire a woman like that--” “Like what? Doggone it, it takes a woman to jump at conclusions! The Countess is all right. She talks some--”