"Why, Rufus Hardy!" exclaimed the judge, reaching out his hand. "Why, bless my heart--to be sure. Why, where have you been for this last year and more? I am sure your father has been quite worried about you." "Oh, I hope not," answered Hardy, shifting his gaze. "I guess he knows I can take care of myself by this time--if I do write poetry," he added, with a shade of bitterness. "Well, well," said the judge, diplomatically changing the subject, "Lucy will be glad to hear of you, at any rate. I believe she--er--wrote you once, some time ago, at your Berkeley address, and the letter was returned as uncalled for." He gazed over the rims of his glasses inquiringly, and with a suggestion of asperity, but the young man was unabashed. "I hope you will tell Miss Lucy," he said deferentially, "that on account of my unsettled life I have not ordered my mail forwarded for some time." He paused and for the moment seemed to be considering some further explanation; then his manner changed abruptly. "I believe you mentioned a matter of business," he remarked bluffly, and the judge came back to earth with a start. His mind had wandered back a year or more to the mysterious disappearance of this same self-contained young man from his father's house, not three blocks from his own comfortable home. There had been a servant's rumor that he had sent back a letter or two postmarked "Bowie, Arizona"--but old Colonel Hardy had said never a word. "Er--yes," he assented absently, "but--well, I declare," he exclaimed helplessly, "I've quite forgotten what it was about." "Won't you sit down, then?" suggested Hardy, indicating the edge of the board walk with a courtly sweep of the hand. "This rain will make good feed for you up around the Four Peaks--I believe it was of your ranch there that you wished to speak." Judge Ware settled down against a convenient post and caught his breath, meanwhile regarding his companion curiously. "Yes, that's it," he said. "I wanted to talk with you about my ranch, but I swear I'll have to wait till Creede comes back, now." "Very well," answered Hardy easily; "we can talk about home, then. How is Miss Lucy succeeding with her art--is she still working at the Institute?" "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed the judge, quite mollified by the inquiry. "Indeed she is, and doing as well as any of them. She had a landscape hung at the last exhibit, that was very highly praised, even by Mathers, and you know how hard he is to please. Tupper Browne won the prize, but I think Lucy's was twice the picture--kind of soft and sunshiny, you know--it made you think of home, just to look at it."