She stared with dilating pupils at the small picture. “Nance!” cried her mother, “_Nance!_” She raised her eyes and looked at Mrs. Allison and the latter felt a chill of fear. “Take—Sonny, Bud,” she said slowly, “and get his clothes.” Bud, tactful and quiet, did as she asked, and when she was alone with her mother the girl held out the picture. “Brand told me—last night,” she said haltingly, “that a package he gave me—to open in case anything happened—to him—held the face of—of—of Sonny’s mother. This is Cattle Kate Cathrew.” “My good Lord A’mighty!” ejaculated Mrs. Allison. Nance nodded. “Then—who’s his—father?” “Who d’you suppose, Mammy?” asked the girl miserably, “I’m afraid it’s Brand—the man who says he loves me!” The gaunt old mother came round the table and put an unaccustomed arm about her daughter’s shoulders. Caresses were rare with her. “No,” she said decidedly, “Brand Fair ain’t a deceiver. I’d stake a lot on that. I feel to trust him, honey. Whatever is wrong in this terrible tangle, it ain’t Brand—an’ you can take your old Mammy’s word on that.” The girl straightened her shoulders, lifted her head. “I do trust him, Mammy,” she said gallantly, “whatever has happened in the past I know it has not made him a liar—and I feel to be ashamed of myself.” “Needn’t,” said Mrs. Allison succinctly, “it’s natural—th’ age-old instinct of jealousy. Come down from our naked ancestors when th’ man was th’ food-getter an’ th’ woman fought with tooth an’ nail if another female hove in sight. You’d like to go right out now an’ scratch that woman’s eyes out, wouldn’t you?” A sickly smile trembled on Nance’s lips. “I guess I would,” she said unsteadily, “because—you see—if—if she’s his wife—why—he can’t take another.” “There’s divorce laws in this country, ain’t there? How do you know she’s his wife now?” “Mammy,” said Nance gratefully, “you’re the most wonderful woman I ever knew! You’ve got more reason than a houseful of lawyers. And I’m going to take heart right now. I’ll put this picture away in the package and wait till Brand is ready to tell me all about it—and I’ll stand steady in my love and my faith.” “That’s my big girl!” said the mother, “now get to work at something. It’s th’ best cure-all on earth.” * * * * * Cattle Kate Cathrew sat on the broad veranda at Sky Line. She was clad like a sybarite, in shining satin. Rings sparkled on her fingers, lights sparkled in her hard eyes, a close-held excitement was visible in her whole appearance. She looked down across the vast green-clad slopes of Mystery and held her breath that she might the better listen for a sound in the stillness. For she was waiting for the writer of those letters, the man from New York who came at regular intervals to bask in the peace of Sky Line—for Lawrence Arnold himself. It had been months since she had seen him, and the passion in her was surging like molten lava.