She had not noticed until now how really tired and worn out the man looked. Three weeks of constant riding is a hard task, even for those who, one might say, live in the saddle. To have charge of the round-up; to manage successfully and skilfully the driving and separating of thousands of cattle and the correct branding of the calves; to see that each man performs his especial duty and his share and is not behind some protecting hill sitting on the ground, digging his spurs into the ground, watching his horse eat grass while the other “boys” are driving the cattle to the branding corrals; to do all these and many more duties dependent upon him, completely used up all of West’s reserve force. “There—there—never mind—don’t say ‘yes’; really, I am selfish to forget how tired you both must be, indeed,” continued Bess anxiously, as West, with effort, lowered his arms and drew himself together. She took one of the rose-buds from her hair and carelessly fastened it in a button-hole of his shirt. The faint perfume arose to his nostrils, and for a moment made him quiver, as if he were cold. He gripped the arms of the chair, that his hands might not, against his will, clasp the girl and draw her down to him and hold her there forever. “Give me my desire, and then let me die,” the words of the sad, tragic song leaped to his mind. “Really, Bess,” he explained, “James is quite worn out. He stood the round-up splendidly, and although I tried to give him easy shifts he insisted upon doing his share. I will go with you for a ride, and am not tired.” “No, Henry, we will just stay at home, and you and James shall tell me all about the experiences of the past few weeks.” As they went into the dining-room a large box was at Bess’ place at the table. Her face and neck dyed crimson as she caught sight of it, for well she knew what it contained and who was the sender. She would have placed it aside, but James and Mrs. West coaxingly demanded to see the contents. Her trembling fingers could scarcely untie the cord. Henry, who sat beside her, offered his assistance, and as she removed the cover and green, waxen paper and lifted the large, white roses to her face, a card fell at Henry’s plate. “Oh! a card too! Let’s see, Henry, who it is that sent the conservatory,” cried James, who never missed an opportunity to tease his sister. But Henry, without even glancing at the card, placed it among the flowers which Bess held in her arms. Her first impulse was to flee, but instead, she stood up straight and firm, and with an impulsive gesture gave the card to Mrs. West. “Read, Mother,” demanded the girl, “and tell who sent these and many others to us,” with especial emphasis on the last word. “This time, dearie, I fear we are not in partnership. James, you know who sent the roses; the card reads, ‘To my sweetheart,’” said Mrs. West softly, as she again replaced the card. “I congratulate you Miss—Bess,” remarked Henry, his face suddenly grown pale.