The long day wore along. Mother White was baking. The men would be ravenous when they came back. Many would stop there for something to eat before going on to their homes. It might be to-night, it might be to-morrow, it might not be until the day after, but whenever the time did come, knowing the men of the range country, she must have something “by her.” The pleasant fragrance of new bread just from the oven, mixed with the faint, spicy odor of cinnamon rolls, floated into the cheerless sitting-room. Mary, idly watching Mother White through the open door as she bustled about in a wholesome-looking blue-checked gingham apron, longed with a childish intensity to be out where there were human warmth and companionship. It was such a weary struggle to keep cobwebs out of her head in that lonely, carpetless sitting-room, and to keep the pipe that reared itself above the squat stove, from changing into a cottonwood tree. Some calamity seemed to hover over her all the time. She was about to grasp the terrible truth,—she knew she must look around. Now some one was creeping toward her from under the bed. Unless she stared it out of countenance, something awful would surely come to pass. Mother White came to the door from time to time to ask her how she was, with floury hands, and stove smutch on her plump cheek. She never failed to break the evil spell. But Mary was weak, and Mrs. White on one of her periodical pauses at the door found her sobbing in pitiful self-abandonment. She went to her quickly, her face full of concern. “My dear, my dear,” she cried, anxiously, “what is it? Tell me. Mr. Langford will never forgive me. I didn’t mean to neglect you, child. It’s only that I’m plumb a-foot for time. Tell me what ails you—that’s a dearie.” Mary laid her head on the motherly shoulder and cried quietly for a while. Then she looked up with the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m ashamed to tell you, Mother White,” she half whispered. “It is—only—that I was afraid you hadn’t put enough cinnamon in the rolls. I like cinnamon rolls.” “Lord love the child!” gasped Mrs. White, but without the least inclination to laugh. “Why, I lit’rally buried ’em in cinnamon. I couldn’t afford not to. If I do say it who shouldn’t, my rolls is pretty well known in Kemah County. The boys wouldn’t stand for no economizin’ in spice. No, sirree.” She hastened wonderingly back to her kitchen, only to return with a heaped-up plate of sweet-smelling rolls. “Here you are, honey, and they wont hurt you a mite. I can’t think what keeps that fool Doc.” She was getting worried. It was nearly four and he was not even in sight.