In spite of his thirty-five years and his somewhat ruthless business career, John Ryder was undoubtedly still very much of a boy. And indeed, in love matters, he was but a boy, inasmuch as never before had he even imagined himself in love. "Confound this old ranch, anyway!" John Ryder muttered. "Why should I bother my head about it--or about these silly folks in it? I declare! we'll find some way of getting out of the pickle ourselves tomorrow morning and go to some place where we can enjoy our honeymoon undisturbed." Then he remembered that Ruth had chosen Pinewood particularly. It might be only a whim on her part; but he was in a mind just then to satisfy even her whims, if it could be done. "This man, Giddings, will show up, and things will probably be running all right before tomorrow night. And Ruth--God bless that sweet name!--has taken all the trouble to unpack. By thunder!" he added, "it's funny about those dresses of hers. I must ask her----" He had come to the door and opened it softly--so softly indeed that the occupant of the room did not hear him. His heart throbbed and his eyes actually smarted with unshed drops as he looked down the long apartment and saw his wife sitting reading in the radiance of the drop-light at the table. She was alone. The other lights had been extinguished, and she sat awaiting his return, evidently with her mind not wholly upon the book in her lap, for she turned no leaves while Ryder watched her. In her attitude and in the loosely flowing gown she had donned since dinner, she made a delightful picture. Ryder drank in the details as he stood, shrinking from breaking the spell of her reverie. It was by no means a sad mood which held her, for her lips slowly parted in a most ravishing smile. He could see this, though it was her profile only he watched from his station at the door. He was about to close the latter softly when she dropped her book and her fingers fluttered about her throat for a moment. She loosened her gown there, thrust one hand within the laces, and drew forth a tiny object attached to a thin gold chain which he had already noticed about her throat. The ornament she held for a moment in her palm was a locket. When she snapped it open and gazed upon what it contained she turned a little so that he saw her expression of countenance more clearly. It startled him. He was a sane and level-headed man. He was thirty-five, and the foolish emotions of adolescence should not have ruffled his calm. Yet aboard the steamship he had felt an unrecognized pang of jealousy whenever he saw Miss Mont talking with Marks, the theatrical man. A similar pang smote him now. No human being ever looked as Ruth looked unless the object of such gaze was a dearly loved one, or the memento of a loved one! While Ryder watched, his wife raised the locket reverently and pressed her lips to the object it contained.