After that, Keith did not need much urging from Dick to spend the rest of the afternoon at the “Pool” ranch. When he wanted to, Keith could be very nice indeed to people; he went a long way, that afternoon, toward making a friend of Miss Hayes; but Mrs. Lansell, who was one of those women who adhere to the theory of First Impressions, in capitals, continued to regard him as an incipient outlaw, who would, in time and under favorable conditions, reveal his true character, and vindicate her keen insight into human nature. There was one thing which Mrs. Lansell never forgave Keith Cameron, and that was the ruin of her watch, which refused to run while she was in Montana. That night, when Beatrice was just snuggling down into the delicious coolness of her pillow, she heard someone rap softly, but none the less imperatively, on her door. She opened one eye stealthily, to see her mother's pudgy form outlined in the feeble moonlight. “Beatrice, are you asleep?” Beatrice did not say yes, but she let her breath out carefully in a slumbrous sigh. It certainly sounded as if she were asleep. “Be-atrice!” The tone, though guarded, was insistent. The head of Beatrice moved slightly, and settled back into its little nest, for all the world like a dreaming, innocent baby. If she had not been the mother of Beatrice, Mrs. Lansell would probably have gone back to her room, and continued to bide her time; but the mother of Beatrice had learned a few things about the ways of a wilful girl. She went in, and closed the door carefully behind her. She did not wish to keep the whole house awake. Then she went straight to the bed, laid hand upon a white shoulder that gleamed in the moonlight, and gave a shake. “Beatrice, I want you to answer me when I speak.” “M-m--did you--m-m--speak, mama?” Beatrice opened her eyes and closed them, opened them again for a minute longer, yawned daintily, and by these signs and tokens wandered back from dreamland obediently. Her mother sat down upon the edge of the bed, and the bed creaked. Also, Beatrice groaned inwardly; the time of reckoning was verily drawing near. She promptly closed her eyes again, and gave a sleepy sigh. “Beatrice, did you refuse Sir Redmond again?” “M-m--were you speaking--mama?” Mrs. Lansell, endeavoring to keep her temper, repeated the question. Beatrice began to feel that she was an abused girl. She lifted herself to her elbow, and thumped the pillow spitefully. “Again? Dear me, mama! I've never refused him once!” “You haven't accepted him once, either,” her mother retorted; and Beatrice lay down again.