"Oh, you're up here on your vacation?" said she, a light of quick interest in her eyes, an unmistakable friendliness in her voice. It was as if he had presented a letter from somebody well and favorably known. "No, I've come up here to see about learning the sheep business." "Sheep business?" said she, looking at him with surprised eyes. "Sheep business?" this time with a shading of disgust. "Well, if I had sense enough to teach school I'd never want to see another sheep!" Mackenzie smiled at her impetuous outburst in which she revealed in a word the discontent of her heart. "Of course you know Mr. Sullivan?" "He's my father," she returned. "This is my brother Charley; there are eight more of us at home." Charley grinned, his shyness still over him, but his alarm quieted, and gave Mackenzie his hand. "The ranch is about thirteen or fifteen miles on up the creek from here," she said, "You haven't had your breakfast, have you?" "No; I just about finished my grub yesterday." "I didn't see any grease around your gills," said the girl, in quite a matter-of-fact way, no flippancy in her manner. "Charley, stir up the fire, will you? I can't offer you much, Mr. Mackenzie, but you're welcome to what there is. How about a can of beans?" "You've hit me right where I live, Miss Sullivan." The collies came warily up, stiff-legged, with backs still ruffled, and sniffed Mackenzie over. They seemed to find him harmless, turning from him presently to go and lie beside Charley, their faces toward the flock, alert ears lifted, white breasts gleaming in the sun like the linen of fastidious gentlemen. "Do you want me to get any water, Joan?" Charley inquired. Joan answered from inside the wagon that no water was needed, there was coffee enough in the pot. She handed the smoke-blackened vessel out to Mackenzie as she spoke, telling him to go and put it on the fire. Joan turned the beans into the pan after cooking the bacon, and sent Charley to the wagon for a loaf of bread. "We don't have to bake bread in this camp, that's one blessing," she said. "Mother keeps us supplied. Some of these sheepherders never taste anything but their cold-water biscuits for years at a time." "It must get kind of tiresome," Mackenzie reflected, thinking of his own efforts at bread-making on the road. "It's too heavy to carry around in the craw," said Joan. Charley watched Mackenzie curiously as he ate, whispering once to his sister, who flushed, turned her eyes a moment on her visitor, and then seemed to rebuke the lad for passing confidences in such impolite way. Mackenzie guessed that his discolored neck and bruised face had been the subject of the boy's conjectures, but he did not feel pride enough in his late encounter to speak of it even in explanation. Charley opened the way to it at last when Joan took the breakfast things back to the wagon. "Have you been in a fight?" the boy inquired.