The feudal board bore up sturdily under the food that Mother Daniels had prepared in honor of Raquel’s return and Dad’s last night at home. The juicy haunch of venison was at one end, a platter of golden brown quail at the other, flanked with savory bacon. Huge bowls of flaky potatoes, chili and beans, winter squash, and Mother Daniels’ sweet-pickled peaches, made a continuous round of the table. The mounds of bread would have appalled a camp baker. And the dishes of gravy seemed like never-failing pitchers of Baucis and Philemon. In a moment they were all seated, taking the fringed napkins from the glasses, and piling the plates with unpampered appetite. “My goodness,” thought Raquel, as Ole Hossfoot speared a piece of bread, deftly reaching across Jimmy’s face. Jami’s smooth cheek was bulging, and Georgie’s face was bisected with a whole slice of bread and butter. Angel’s eyes followed lovingly the bowl of beans, which, never stopping its circuit of the table, was now in Dad’s hands. “’Pears like some one’s missin’.” Mr. Daniels peered down the table, counting ten heads. “Where’s Russell?” There was a momentary pause in the clatter of fork and knife against plate long enough to hear a pounding on the dining-room floor from beneath. “He’s down in the storm cellar,” and Mr. Daniels, pushing back his chair, strode towards an inner wall, stopped, and pulled up a trap door in the floor. It was like releasing a jack-in-the-box, for simultaneously Russell’s red and agitated face popped up, and he clambered out, bearing a big jug and a little jug. Every one roared, except Russell and Georgie, who sank down in his seat. “I forgot to let him out,” he mumbled. Russell had brought his contribution to the feast, some sparkling hard cider, and a peach brandy which he had buried in the earth more than a year before. In spite of the mighty prowess of the diners scarcely a dent seemed to be made in Mother Daniels’ provisions. When the meal was over, Raquel and Georgie rushed to their mother’s side, and each seized an arm. “No, you don’t, Mom. Come on. The boys will wash dishes tonight.” “Well, mind you don’t chip ’em any, Ang-hel,” Mom cautioned, “an’ don’t rub the gold hard.” For Mom had got out the best dishes, with a gold band and a large gold D initialed on each piece. It was an elegant set, all right, and Dad sure liked the looks of that gold. So they went into the sitting-room, where Dad was already sitting with his shoes off, warming his feet before the open fire. The ranch sitting-room was magnificent by firelight. It was long and fairly wide, with heavy, irregular beams studding its ceiling. Mesquite roots and dried tulas burned in an uncommonly large fireplace, built with a projecting hood by some Mexican craftsman with a cunning hand. The firelight leaped ruddily on the cream plastered walls, and on trophies of ranch hunts hanging there.