Stratton crossed the threshold, instinctively removing his hat. As he remembered it, the room, though of good size and comfortable enough, had been a clutter of purely masculine belongings. He was quite unprepared for the colorful gleam of Navajo rugs, the curtained windows, the general air of swept and garnished tidiness which seemed almost luxury. Briefly his sweeping glance took in a bowl of flowers on the center-table and then came to rest abruptly on a slight, girlish figure just risen from a chair beside it. "I'd like to see Miss Thorne, please," he said, stifling his momentary surprise. The girl took a step forward, her slim, tanned, ringless fingers clasped loosely about a book she held. "I'm Miss Thorne," she answered in a low, pleasant voice. Buck gasped and his eyes widened. Then he recovered himself swiftly. "I mean Miss Mary Thorne," he explained; "the--er--owner of this outfit." The girl smiled faintly, a touch of veiled wistfulness in her eyes. "I'm Mary Thorne," she said quietly. "There's only one, you know." CHAPTER IV THE BRANDING-IRON Stratton was never sure just how long he stood staring at her in dumb, dazed bewilderment. After those mental pictures of the Mary Thorne he had expected to find, it was small wonder that the sight of this slip of a black-frocked girl, with her soft voice, her tawny-golden hair and wistful eyes, should stun him into temporary speechlessness. Even when he finally pulled himself together to feel a hot flush flaming in his face and find one gloved hand recklessly crumpling his new Stetson, he could not quite credit the evidence of his hearing. "I--I beg pardon," he said stiffly. "But it doesn't seem possible that--" He hesitated. The girl's smile deepened whimsically. "I know," she said ruefully. "It never does. Nobody seems to think a girl can seriously attempt to run a cattle-ranch--even the way I'm trying to run it, with a capable foreman to look after things. Sometimes I wonder if--" She paused, her glance falling on the book she held. Stratton saw that it was a shabby account-book, a stubby pencil thrust between the leaves. "Yes?" he prompted, scarcely aware what made him ask the question. She looked up at him, her eyes a little wider than before. They were a warm hazel, and for an instant in their depths Stratton glimpsed a troubled expression, so veiled and swiftly passing that a moment later he could not be sure he had read aright. "It's nothing," she shrugged. "You probably know what a lot of nagging little worries a ranchman has, and sometimes it seems to me they all have to come at once. I suppose even a man gets a bit discouraged, now and then." "He sure does," agreed Buck. "What--er--particular sort of worry do you mean?"