fed them and put them to bed, and after their sojourn with her they had sent the clock from San Francisco, inscribed with their names and her name and the date. “The boys fetched it down in the hay wagon, dearie, and it’s never run,” she said regretfully, looking up at its silent and impassive countenance--it was stating, mendaciously, in late afternoon, that it was only ten o’clock--but clearly she bore it no grudge; it was almost too much, she seemed to feel, to expect a clock as handsome as that to keep time; the kitchen clock could do that: this one was dedicated to being a thing of beauty, and therefore a joy forever. Ginger, looking down at the dauntless small figure, the work-warped hands and the unconquered brightness of the eyes, put an arm about her suddenly and gave her a little hug. If the very blond girl and the betrothed girl made her feel old and wise, “Gramma” made her feel her untried youth. She had crossed an ocean and a continent, and helped to hew a home out of a stubborn wilderness; she had borne and reared and buried--there was a little graveyard on the high hill above the ranch--done a woman’s work and a man’s work: three wars had roared and flamed and guttered out again in her ken; the world had leaped forward in science and invention, but she had lived on in her quiet corner, and she seemed as old and as wise as the hills, and as glad as the morning. She pulled Ginger down and kissed her warm cheek. “You hurry up, dearie,” she said, urgently. “You hurry up! And I’ll give you a quilt--that’s what I’ll do! A basket pattern, or a log cabin, or a rising sun--you can take your choice!” She stood nodding and beaming like an ancient seeress at the door of her cave. “You hurry up! You’re young, dearie, but time goes fast--spring and summer, and then the fall comes and the winter--_you hurry_!” CHAPTER XIV THEY had expected the riding party back for luncheon on Saturday, but they did not come, and Ginger was unhappily sure that it was her Aunt Fan who was retarding the procession. Some one raised a shout at six o’clock that they were on the trail above the camp; ordinarily, they would arrive in ten minutes, but it was half an hour before they wound down beside the creek and through the rustic gate. The doctor rode first. “A fine trip,” he said stoutly. “Yes, it was a remarkably fine trip, but Miss Fanny is pretty tired; it was just a little too much of an undertaking for her, I’m afraid.” “Just a little,” said Mrs. Featherstone, bitterly. She was bracing herself in the saddle with both hands on the pommel, and her feet were out of the stirrups, dangling. Her hat was pulled far forward and wisps of damp hair adhered pastily to her face, and she was grimed with dust. “I’d ride right up to my cabin, if I were you, Miss Fanny,” said the doctor, his kind eyes solicitous. “Yes,” said Ginger’s Aunt Fan through set teeth, “I shouldn’t like to miss anything.”