“Tell you what?” He had not taken it in. “Gosh, but that chicken looks good! What’s that lantern out there for?” He was now seated and helping himself to the food. “And that’s all you’ve got to say to me!” she said. And then the deluge came--not of tears, but words. Somewhere inside of Jimsy was an angel, whatever else he contained. Throughout that foolish, galling scene made in my presence before I could escape, never a syllable of what he must have been feeling came from him, but only good-natured ejaculations--not many and rather brief, to be sure. When he learned the reason for the lantern he laughed aloud. This set her off and she rushed into the story of her telephoning. Then, and then alone, it was on the verge of being too much for him. He laid down his knife and fork and leaned back for a second, but the angel won. He resumed his meal; only a brick-red sunset of color spread from his collar to his hair--and his eyes were not gray, but black. That was what I saw after I had got away to my cabin and was in bed: the man’s black eyes fixed on his plate and the pretty girl standing by the stove and working off her needless fright in an unbearable harangue. Audibly I sighed, sighed with audible relief, when the Culloden Ranch lay a mile behind Scipio and me and our packhorses the next day. Jimsy had been as self-controlled in the morning as on the night before--except that no man can control the color of his eyes. The murky storm that hung in Jimsy’s eyes was the kind that does not blow over, but breaks. Was May blind to such a sign? At breakfast she told him that the next time he went for wood she would go to see that he got back for supper! I told Scipio that if things were not different when we returned I should move over to his cabin. “You’d never have figured a girl could get Jimsy buffaloed!” said Scipio. “He’s not buffaloed a little bit,” I returned. “Ain’t he goin’ to do nothin’?” “I don’t know what he’ll do.” Scipio rode for a while, thinking it over. “If I had a wife,” he said, “and she got to thinkin’ she was my mother, I’d take a dally with her.” His meaning was not clear; but he made it so: “I’d take her--well, not _on_ my knee, but acrost it.” This I doubted, but said nothing. By and by we were passing the Sedlaw Ranch and Mrs. Sedlaw came running out rather hastily--and began speaking before she reached the gate. “Oh, howdy-do?” said she; and she stood looking at me. “Isn’t it perfect weather?” said I. “Yes, indeed. And so you’re going hunting?” “Yes. Want to come?” “Why, wouldn’t that be nice! I thought Jimsy and May might be going with you.” “Oh, they’re too busy. Good-by.” She stood looking after me for some time and I saw her walk back to the house quite slowly.