Later she and Martha went out on the porch, where, seated in rocking-chairs—that had not been on the porch the day before—she filled her mental vision with pictures of her father’s life at the Arrow. Those pictures were imaginary, but they were intensely satisfying to the girl who had loved her father, for she could almost see him moving about her. “You shuah does look soft an’ dreamy, honey,” Martha told her once. “You looks jes’ like a delicate ghost. A while ago, lookin’ at you, I shuah was scared you was goin’ to blow away!” But Marion was not the ethereal wraith that Martha thought her. She proved that a little later, when, with the negro woman abetting her, she went into the house and prepared dinner. For she ate so heartily that Martha was forced to amend her former statement. “For a ghost you shuah does eat plenty, honey,” she said. Later they were out on the porch again. The big level on the other side of the river was flooded with a slumberous sunshine, with the glowing, rose haze of early afternoon enveloping it, and the girl was enjoying it when there came an interruption. A cowboy emerged from a building down near the corral—Marion learned later that the building was the bunkhouse, which meant that it was used as sleeping-quarters for the Arrow outfit—and walked, with the rolling stride so peculiar to his kind, toward the porch. He was a tall young man, red of face, and just now affected with a mighty embarrassment, which was revealed in the awkward manner in which he removed his hat and shuffled his feet as he came to a halt within a few feet of Marion. “The boss wants to know how you are gettin’ along, ma’am, an’ if there’s anything you’re wantin’?” “We are enjoying ourselves immensely, thank you; and there is nothing we want—particularly.” The puncher had turned to go before the girl thought of the significance of the “boss.” Her face was a trifle pale as she called to the puncher. “Who is your boss—if you please?” she asked. The puncher wheeled, a slow grin on his face. “Why, Squint Taylor, ma’am.” She sat erect. “Do you mean that Mr. Taylor is here?” “He’s in the bunkhouse, ma’am.” She got up, and, holding her head very erect, began to walk toward the room in which she had left her hat. But half-way across the porch the puncher’s voice halted her: “Squint was sayin’ you didn’t expect him to be here, an’ that I’d have to do the explainin’. He couldn’t come, you see.” “Ashamed, I suppose,” she said coldly. She was facing the puncher now, and she saw him grin. “Why, no, ma’am; I don’t reckon he’s a heap ashamed. But it’d be mighty inconvenient for him. You see, ma’am, this mornin’, when he was gittin’ ready to ride to the south line, his cayuse got an ornery streak an’ throwed him, sprainin’ Squint’s ankle.” The girl’s emotions suddenly reacted; the resentment she had yielded to became self-reproach. For she had judged hastily, and she had always felt that one had no right to judge hastily.