Ashton crumpled the letter in his clenched hand as he had crumpled the letter from his father's lawyers. "He is coming! he really is coming!" he gasped. "Thursday--only three days! Genevieve too!" "And his son!" cried Isobel, too excited to heed the dismay in her companion's look and tone. "He and his family, too, as my guests!" "Yes," said Ashton bitterly. "And what of it when he floods you off your cattle range? By another year or two, the irrigation farmers will be settling all over this mesa, thick as flies." "Oh, no; it is probable that Mr. Blake will find there is no chance to water Dry Mesa," she replied, in a tone strangely nonchalant considering her former expressions of apprehension. She drew the crumpled letter from his relaxing fingers, and smoothed it out for a second reading. "'Wife, son, and self,'" she quoted. "Son? How old is he?" "I don't know. They've been married nearly two years," muttered Ashton. "Then it's a baby!--oh! oh! how lovely!" shrieked the girl. "And its mamma wants to rough it! She shall have every egg and chicken on the place--and gallons of cream! We shall take the skim milk." Still Ashton failed to enthuse. "To them that have, shall be given, and from him who has lost millions shall be taken all that's left!" he gibed. "No, we'll still have the skim milk," she bantered, refusing to notice his cynical bitterness. "I'm a day laborer!" he went on, still more bitterly. "I'm afraid of losing even my skim milk--And two weeks ago I thought myself certain of three times the millions that he will get when her father dies!" "No use crying over spilt milk, or spilt cream, either!" she replied. The note of sympathetic concern under her raillery brought a glimmer of hopefulness into his moody eyes. "If I did not think your father will drive me away!" he murmured. "Why should he?" she asked. "Because when Blake comes--" Ashton paused and shifted to a question. "Will you tell your father about their coming?" "Of course. I did not tell him about writing, because it would only have increased his suspense. But now--Let's hurry back!" A cut of her quirt set her pony into a lope. Rocket needed no urging. He followed and maintained a position close behind the galloping pony without breaking out of his rangy trot. Occasionally Isobel flung back a gay remark over her shoulder. Ashton did not respond. He rode after her, silent and depressed, his eyes fixed longingly on her graceful form, ever fleeing forward before him as he advanced. Once clear of the sagebrush, she drew rein for him to come up. They rode side by side across Dry Fork and over the divide. When they stopped at the corral she would have unsaddled her pony had he not begged leave to do her the service. As reward, she waited until he could accompany her to the house.