She came at last. She rode up and passed her weary horse to a barn-hand who promptly waited upon her. She was covered with dust to her waist. Her top-boots were white with it. But her cheeks were as fresh as peach bloom, and her soft eyes shone with all a ranchman's enthusiasm at the most exhilarating period of the year. "One hundred an' forty-two young Obars to-day, my Daddy," she cried out exuberantly. "Ther' don't seem any end to last year's crop. Say, Jeff's just crazy to death about things." "He surely is." The old man's reply was tinged by a reflection of his thoughts. But his eyes lit nevertheless. Nan regarded him seriously. "Most men get a grouch when they're kept waiting food," she observed slily. "Say, come right in an' you'll soon feel the world's a mighty good place to live in." Instantly Bud's humor improved. "Guess you do your best to make it that way." The girl laughed as she led the way in. "That surely is a pretty nice talk, my Daddy. Guess I'll take advantage of it, an' keep you waiting another three minutes while I get rid of the dust." Her father nodded. "Jeff comin' up?" he inquired. The girl shook her head. For a moment the smiling eyes were hidden beneath their lids. "Not for supper. He's gone on to the branding 'pinch.'" She was gone before her father could reply, and he was left to his own reflections, which were still further inspired by impatience. Well enough he knew the arduous nature of the work. Had he not been at it himself since the first streak of dawn? But he felt that Jeff was going beyond the bounds of necessity. Even beyond the bounds of reason. However, he was not given much time to nurse any imaginary grievance. For Nan reappeared after a surprisingly short interval, and the transformation she had achieved was not a little startling. Her dusty riding suit had given place to a pretty house frock of some softly clinging material which restored to her at once the charm of her essential femininity. The pretty brown of her eyes, and the wavy softness of her hair became indescribably charming in such a setting. Bud regarded her with warm approval, and his spirits rose. "Jeff's coming right up after he's eaten," she said, as they look their places at the table. "He's getting the food he needs at the bunkhouse. He guesses he hasn't time to get supper right." "Ah." The announcement gave Bud more pleasure than his monosyllable admitted. His eyes once more took in the picture Nan made as she sat behind the steaming coffee urn at the head of the table. And somehow the change she had made became less startling. The meal was the customary ranch supper. The table was simply loaded with cold meats, and sweets, and cakes of varied description. The fare was homely but plentiful, and, to these simple-living people, it was all that was required. Bud helped himself liberally, while Nan poured out the fragrant coffee.