“Dear me—it is nearly burned! I forgot—everything!” she said disconnectedly as she snatched the cake from the stove and placed it on the table. “Oh! it’s hot!” she exclaimed, as she stuck her finger into her mouth; then looking at it she saw a large, white blister swelling upon the tender skin. West saw at once that she had burned her hand and hastily applied some soda to relieve the pain. With tender care he wrapped it up, and when the smarting had ceased, told Bess he would help her to get the meal. She was still ill at ease, and the incident of a few moments ago kept asserting itself in little spasms that would make her catch her breath. In her ears kept ringing the echo of Davis’ burning words, and she longed to flee to her room, to be alone, to think—to think—to cry. She surely would cry—she felt tears coming. “Oh, Henry—I can’t stay—I want to go to—my—,” but by this time the floodgates of pent-up feelings had opened wide, and with tears streaming down her cheeks she fled to the silence and comfort of her own dear room. “Poor little girl; she is nervous trying to do so much this morning,” soliloquized Henry, drawing off his coat and tying on a large apron. He then began to make preparations for the noon-day meal. Just then, up the road leading to the house, drove one of the Indian police with a comfortable conveyance. By the time he could reach the porch, Davis, who had been watching the arrival, was already there dressed to go away. “May I be of any service,” asked Henry West, with civility. “Thank you. The man will fetch down my things.” West walked out to hold the horses while the minor preparations were going on, and helped Davis to a comfortable position in the rig. “I am sorry not to have seen your mother before leaving. Please tell her I shall be over here again, as soon as possible, to—to—remunerate her for all the inconvenience to which I have placed her,” said Davis; and then, without further addressing West, ordered the man to start. West stood for several moments watching the departure; the only emotion which he betrayed being a convulsive closing of his hands and eyes. CHAPTER XII AN INDIAN IN THE MOONLIGHT When Mrs. West returned to the ranch in the evening, she sought Bess in her room to learn of her experience in the culinary department during the day. As she tapped at the door and softly entered, a dejected, dishevelled and tear-stained figure arose and flung her arms about the “little Mother.” Impulsively and swiftly she poured into Mrs. West’s astonished ears all that had transpired that morning, and when she had finished, she said, “Why, little Mother, I love so much already, I cannot find room for any more. I love you—I love James—the birds—the grass and flowers! I love the mountains and the wonderful lake! I love my music—my books and my pictures! I love Mauchacho—I love babies—and dogs. Where is there room for any more?”