She took his thin fingers into a warm brown grasp. “Please come! Please come and stay!” The other Mr. Wolcott was coming down the path, picking his way neatly through the mud, but she did not let Dean Wolcott’s hand go. “And please come--soon!” * * * * * The capable cousin took him away at dusk. They would get a train out of San Luis Obispo at midnight and leave Los Angeles for Boston the next forenoon. He had it all compactly figured out. If they made proper connections--and he looked as if trains rarely if ever trifled with him--they would reach home on the day and at the hour when he had planned to reach home. Ling and Manuela had hastily cooked and served an early supper and Ginger sat across the table from her two guests, looking at them and listening to them, eating nothing herself. It was to be observed that the worn young soldier and his kinsman shared certain characteristics of face and figure--the same established look of race--but they were two distinct variations on the family theme. For the first time in her assured and unquestioning life Ginger was acutely aware of her table--of the contrast between the fine old silver and glass which her mother, Rosalía Valdés, had brought with her to Dos Pozos as a bride and the commonplace and stupid modern china which she herself had bought at San Luis Obispo; of old Manuela’s serene crudities of service. The other Mr. Wolcott was carefully civil, but he managed to make her stingingly conscious of the number and variety of miles between Boston and her ranch: he had rather the air of a cautious and tactful explorer among wild tribes. Whenever he looked at her, which was not often, she felt like a picture in a travel magazine--“native belle in holiday attire”--like a young savage princess with strings of wampum and a copper ring in her nose. But she did feel, at any rate, like a princess: he aroused in her an absurd desire to talk about the McVeaghs in Scotland and the Valdés family in Spain; to drag out heirlooms and ancient treasures. Dean Wolcott was very white again and said little. When they were in the machine he rallied himself with a visible effort. “I will send the sketch soon,” he said, rather hollowly, “and I will write you--everything.” Then he seemed to sink back into his weary weakness; even the glow died out of his eyes. Ginger watched the machine’s little red tail light disappear around the curve. She was certain that, directly they were under way, the other Mr. Wolcott was telling him how very much wiser and more sensible, how much less exhausting and expensive it would have been to mail Aleck’s letter to her. Then she went briskly into her own room and came out into the corridor presently with her arms overflowing with black clothing--black riding things, black waists and skirts, black dresses. “Manuela,” she said, as the old woman came up to her, staring, “these are for you and your daughters. I’ve done with them.”