In the house everything was as I’d left it. All that evening I moped around the big, low-ceiled living-room. There was little comfort in the place; it was too lonely. The hours dragged by on leaden feet. I couldn’t get over expecting to see mother come trailing quietly down the wide stairway, or dad walk in the front door packing a battered old grip and greeting me with his slow smile. I know it was silly, but the feeling drove me out of the house and down town, where there was a crush of humans, and the glitter of street lights and the noise of traffic. There I met a chum or two, and subsequent proceedings tore a jagged hole in Bolton’s fifty dollar bill before I landed home in the little hours. Even then I couldn’t sleep in that still, old house. The long night came to an end, as nights have a habit of doing, and breakfast time brought with it the postman. The mail was mostly papers and other uninteresting junk, but one missive, postmarked Amarillo, Texas, and addressed to myself I opened eagerly. It was from the administrator, as I had surmised. Most of the communication was taken up with an explanation of how he came to jump into the breach so quickly. He had been, it seemed, a close friend of my father’s. He knew that Jack Sumner had a son who was not yet of age, and who, even if he were, knew little or nothing about stock. Things needed looking after, he said; my father’s sudden death had left the business without a responsible head, and the ranch foreman and the range boss were bucking each other. Things were going to the devil generally, so he felt called upon to step into the breach, seeing that none of the Sumner family showed up to protect their interests. I wouldn’t be under any obligation to him, he frankly explained, for as administrator he would be paid for what he was doing. He also stated that if I felt that my affairs would be more capably managed in the hands of someone whom I knew better he would cheerfully turn over control of the estate without any tiresome litigation. And he concluded his letter with an urgent invitation to come down to headquarters and see the wheels go round for myself. He signed himself in a big heavy hand, Jake Howey, and the signature gave me an impression of a bluff, hard-riding cowman—picturesque and thoroughly Western. If I had been born a girl I expect my disposition would have been termed romantic. Anyway, Mr. Jake Howey’s letter made a hit with me. When I went to keep my appointment with Bolton later in the forenoon I took the letter with me. He glanced over it, and tucked it back in the envelope. “I don’t much believe in long distance judgment of men,” he declared, “but I’d be willing to take a chance on this Texas person. I should say you can expect a square deal from him—if this missive represents his true personality.” “That’s the way it struck me, too,” I confessed. “I think I’d like to go down there for a while.” “Yes? What about school?” he put in.