The question of an innocent young girl on the very verge of her young womanhood. The question of a practically unknown mother. The question of a shattered unrelated man coming fresh to them from fifteen years in prison. The question even of Dr. Brawne. Everybody had his or her own impractical or unsatisfactory solution to suggest. Everybody, that is, except Allan John. Allan John as usual had nothing to say. Upstairs, in the privacy of her own room, Ann Woltor and the May Girl, without undue emotion, were very evidently threshing out the problem for themselves. Yet when they came down and joined us just before supper-time, it was only too evident from their tired faces that they had reached no happier conclusion than ours. George Keets and my Husband brought the May Girl down. Claude Kennilworth, quite in his old form, save for his splinted arm, superintended the expedition. "It's her being so beastly long," scolded Kennilworth, "that makes the job so hard!" In the depths of the big leather chair the May Girl didn't look very long to me, but she did look astonishingly frail. With a gesture of despair. Ann Woltor turned to her companions, as if she had read our thoughts. "There isn't any solution," she said. Why all of us turned just then to Allan John I don't know, but it became perfectly evident to everyone at that moment that Allan John was about to speak. "It seems quite clear to me," said Allan John simply. "It seems quite natural to me somehow," he added, "that you should all come home with me to my ranch in Montana. The little girl needs it--the big outdoors--the animals--the life she craves. You need it," he said, turning to Ann Woltor, "the peace of it, the balm of it. But most of all John Stoltor will need it when it is time for him to come. Far from prying eyes, safe from intrusive questionings, that certainly will be the perfect chance for you all to plan out your new lives together. How much it would mean to me not to have to go back alone I need not say." Startled at his insight, compelled by his sincerity, Ann Woltor saw order dawn suddenly out of the chaos of her emotions. From her frankly quivering lips a single protest wavered. "But Allan John," she cried, "you've only known us four days." Across Allan John's haggard face flickered the faintest possible suggestion of a smile. "I was a stranger--and you took me in." With the weirdest possible sense of supernatural benediction, the dark room flooded suddenly with light. From the window, just beyond me, I heard my Husband's astonished exclamation: "Look, Mary," he cried, "come quickly." At an instant I was at his side. Across the murky western sky the tumultuous storm-clouds had broken suddenly into silver and gold. In a blaze of glory the setting sun fairly streamed into our faces. Struggling up from the depths of her chair to view it--even the May Girl's pallid cheeks caught up their share of the radiance.