"You are not to think of it again!" she commanded with kindly severity. "What you are to remember all the time is that you are now a man and honestly earning your own living, and no longer a--a leech battening on the sustenance produced by others." He winced. "Was that my fault?" "No, it was your father's. I marvel that he did not utterly ruin you." "He has! In his last will he cuts me off with only a dollar." "So that was it?--And you think that ruined you? I say it saved you!" she went on with the same kindly severity. "You were a parasite. Now the chance is yours to prove that you have the makings of a man. You have started to prove it. You shall not stop proving it. You are not going to be a quitter." "No!" he declared, straightening under her bright gaze. "I will not quit. I will try my best to make good as long as the chance is given me." "Now you're talking!" she commended him breezily. "How could I do otherwise when you asked me?" he replied with a grave sincerity far more complimentary than mere gallantry. She colored with pleasure and began to tell him of the cattle and their ways. When they reached the corral she complimented him in turn by allowing him to offsaddle her horse. They walked on down to the house and seated themselves in the porch. As he opened the bag of mail for her she noticed that her hand was empty and turned to look back towards the corral. "Your receipt from the postmaster," she remarked; "I must have dropped it." He sprang up. "If you wish to keep it, I shall go back and find it for you." "No, oh, no; unless you want it yourself," she replied. "Not I. The matter is closed, thanks to your kindness," he declared, again seating himself. He was right, in so far as they were concerned. Yet the matter was not closed. That evening, when Knowles and Gowan returned from their day of range riding, the younger man noticed a crumpled slip of paper lying against the foot of the corral post below the place where he tossed up his saddle. He picked it up and looked to see if it was of any value. An oath burst from his thin-drawn lips. "Shut up, Kid!" remonstrated Knowles. "I'm no more squeamish than most, but you know I don't like any cussing so near Chuckie." "Look at this!" cried Gowan--"Enough to make anybody cuss!" He thrust out the slip of paper close before his employer's eyes. Knowles took it and read it through with deliberate care. "Well?" he said. "It's a receipt from the postmaster to Ashton for those letters I sent over by him. What of it?" "_Your_ letters?" asked Gowan, taken aback. "Did you write that one what is most particularly mentioned, the one to that big engineer Blake?" "No. What would I be doing, writing to him or any engineer? They're just the people I don't want to have any doings with." "Then if you didn't write him, who did?" questioned Gowan, his mouth again tightening. "Why, I reckon you'll have to do your own guessing, Kid--unless it might be Ashton did it."