Frances and Pratt heard none of this. Pratt had entered the car and the two young people were talking to the Reverend Mr. Tooley, who was a demure little man in clerical black, who seemed quite happy over the reunion of the two old friends, Captain Dan Rugley and Jonas P. Lonergan. Lonergan was a lean old man who walked with a crutch. Although he had a very vigorous voice, he showed his age and his state of ill health when he began to move about. "But we'll fix all that, Lon," the Captain assured him. "Once we get you out to the Bar-T we'll build you up in a jiffy. We'll get you out of doors. Humph! soldiers' home, indeed! Why, you've got a long stretch of life ahead of you yet. I've beat out old Mr. Rheumatism myself these last few weeks. "We'll fight our bodily ills and old age together, Lon--just as we used to fight other enemies. Back to back and never give up or ask for quarter, eh?" "That's the talk, Dan!" cried the other old fellow. But Mr. Lonergan was glad to ride out to the Bar-T in the comfortably-cushioned carriage that Mack Hinkman had driven to town. The party arrived at the ranch-house--Mr. Tooley and all--after daybreak. The Captain had insisted upon Pratt's going, too. "What?" Lonergan demanded. "_You_ a bank clerk, looking out through the wires of a cage like a monkey in the Zoo we saw years ago at Kansas City?" "That _is_ a nice job for your nephew, hey Lon?" put in the Captain. "Drop it, boy, drop it. You're the heir of a rich man now--isn't that so, Captain?" "That's so," agreed Captain Dan Rugley. "He'd better write in to his bank and tell 'em to excuse him indefinitely; and write to his mother to come out here and visit a spell with her brother. The Bar-T's big enough, I should hope--hey, Frances? What do you say?" "I am sure it would be nice to have Pratt's mother with us. I'd be delighted to have somebody's mother in the house, Daddy," said Frances, smiling. "You know, you're the best father that ever lived; but you can't be mother, too." "It's what you've missed since you were a tiny little girl, Frances," agreed Captain Rugley, gravely. "But just the same--I want 'em to show me a girl in all this blessed Panhandle that's a better or finer girl than my Frances. Am I right, Pratt?" "You most certainly are, Captain," the young man agreed. "Or anywhere outside the Panhandle." Frances smiled at him roguishly. "Even from Boston, Pratt?" she whispered. But Pratt forgave her for that. * * * * * Another picture of the Bar-T ranch-house on a late afternoon. The slanting rays of a westering sun lie across the floor of the main veranda. The family party idling there need no introduction save in a single particular. A tall, well-built lady in black, and with grey hair, and who looks so much like Pratt Sanderson that the relationship between them could be seen at a glance, has the chair of honor. Mrs. Sanderson is making her first of many visits to the Bar-T.