Receiving no reply, she looked up pleadingly, and was startled at the transformation in his eyes, which were usually narrow, cold and of steel-gray shade, but now were dark, shining and full of infinite pity as they looked down into hers. "I am glad to hear it," he said gently. "You know that was why I brought you here. Now you must do more for me. You mustn't mingle with the men, or repeat to-day's program. I want you to be like her--a house-woman. Good-bye--until I come home." He rode swiftly away, and she laughed softly to herself, stopping suddenly. "It isn't so funny after all; it's really pathetic. But--a house-woman! Ye Gods! That is the last thing I want to be--or could be. It's all well for a novelty, but for steady diet--oh, me! If Hebby could have heard the law laid down to me, he'd be overcome with glee. Poor old Heb! I bet he is still frothing at the mouth because I gave him such a neat slip. I seem, however, to have only succeeded in changing keepers." She rode on, her conscience smiting her now and then when she recalled the look in Kurt's eyes. "I don't deserve pity from him or anyone," she thought a little sadly. She made no mention at Top Hill of having met the foreman. Notwithstanding his orders, for three days she revelled in the companionship of Jo and the men. "We must harvest all the hay we can," she told him, "while Kind Kurt is away." On the evening of the third day, she found herself watching the hill road from town. "I feel like Sister Anne," she thought. "It's odd, why I am wanting him to return, for when he does, my fun will be nipped in the bud. It may be the feeling of a dog for its master that I have acquired for my sheriff man. Jo will be going soon to Westcott's. I think I will play up to Kind Kurt and then tell him what I revealed to Mrs. Kingdon. Wow!" She turned from the window to hear the message Kingdon had just received from the telegraph office in town. An old-time friend had asked him to join a party of men at a ranch a hundred miles distant. His wife urged him to follow his apparent inclination. "It'll do you good, Louis, to see more of your kind again." "I wouldn't consider it if you didn't have such good company," he said, with a whimsical smile in Pen's direction. The following morning, Jo drove Mrs. Kingdon, Pen and the children to town to see Kingdon off. When his train had pulled out, they went to the postoffice and Francis was sent in for the mail. "A letter for you, mother," he said, running up to the car. "It's Aunt Helen's writing." An anxious look came into Margaret Kingdon's eyes as she read. "Doris is ill, and my sister wants me to come to her," she explained to Pen. "She is quite helpless in a sick room and Doris asks for me. There is a train east in an hour and you can send my luggage on to me. I'll return as soon as Doris is convalescent." "I will do all I can to help with the children," promised Pen.