"Naw," said Brigham, "she ain't stuck up; be yer?" "Not a bit." The teacher's answer seemed to give entire satisfaction to the company. The children gathered about her as they reached the door of Clayton Ranch. Esther Bright placed her hand on Brigham's head. It was a loving touch, and her "Good night, laddie," sent the child on his way happy. Within the house, all was cheer and welcome. The great living room was ablaze with light. A large open fireplace occupied the greater part of the space on one side. There, a fire of dry mesquite wood snapped and crackled, furnishing both light and heat this chill November evening. The floor of the living room was covered with an English three-ply carpet. The oak chairs were both substantial and comfortable. On the walls, hung three oil paintings of English scenes. Here and there were bookcases, filled with standard works. On a round table near the fireplace, were strewn magazines and papers. A comfortable low couch, piled with sofa pillows, occupied one side of the room near the firelight. Here, resting from a long and fatiguing journey, was stretched John Clayton, the owner of the house. As Esther Bright entered the room, he rose and greeted her cordially. His manner indicated the well-bred man of the world. He was tall and muscular, his face, bronzed from the Arizona sun. There was something very genial about the man that made him a delightful host. "Late home, Miss Bright!" he said in playful reproof. "This is a rough country, you know." "So I hear, mine host," she said, bowing low in mock gravity, "and that is why we have been scared to death at your long absence. I feared the Indians had carried you off." "I was detained unwillingly," he responded. "But, really, Miss Bright, I am not joking. It _is_ perilous for you to tramp these mountain roads as you do, and especially near nightfall. You are tempting Providence." He nodded his head warningly. "But I am not afraid," she persisted. "I know that. More's the pity. But you ought to be. Some day you may be captured and carried off, and no one in camp to rescue you." "How romantic!" she answered, a smile lurking in her eyes and about her mouth. She seated herself on a stool near the fire. "Why didn't you ask me why I was so late? I have an excellent excuse." "Why, prisoner at the bar?" "Please, y'r honor, we've been making ready for Christmas." She assumed the air of a culprit, and looked so demurely funny he laughed outright. Here Mrs. Clayton and Edith, her fifteen-year-old daughter, entered the room. "What's the fun?" questioned Edith. "Miss Bright is pleading guilty to working more hours than she should." "Oh, no, I didn't, Edith," she said merrily. "I said we had been making ready for Christmas." Edith sat on a stool at her teacher's side. She, too, was ready for a tilt. "You're not to pronounce sentence, Mr. Judge, until you see what we have been doing. It's to be a great surprise." And Edith looked wise and mysterious.