York had a shrewd notion of what that letter contained, but there was nothing in Jerry's face by which to judge of its effect on her. Two things he was learning about her--one, that she didn't tell all she knew, after the manner of most frivolous-minded girls; the other, that she didn't tell anything until she was fully ready to do so. He admired both traits, even though they baffled him. In his own pocket was Jerusha Darby's letter, also specially delivered. He sat down by Jerry and waited for her to speak. "Were those the people we saw on the south border of 'Kingussie'?" she asked. "Yes," York replied. "Do they interest you?" she questioned. "Very much." "Why?" Jerry was killing something--time, or thought. "Because, as I told you the other day, the same life problems come to all grades. And life problems are always interesting," York declared. "Has Thelma Ekblad a blowout farm, too?" Jerry's face was serious, but her eyes betrayed her mood. "Better a blowout farm than a blowout soul," York thought. "No. I wonder what she would do with it if she had," he said, aloud. "Just what I am doing, no doubt, since all of us, 'Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady,' are alike. Tell me more about her," Jerry demanded. "She's talking against time now, I know, but I'll tell her a few things," York concluded. "Jerry, there are not many women like this Norwegian farmer girl who is working her way through the State University down at Lawrence. A few years ago her brother Paul was in love with a girl up the Sage Brush, the daughter of a prosperous, stupid, stingy old ranchman. Paul was chewed up in a mowing-machine one day when the horses got scared and ran away, but his girl was true to him in spite of her father's objections to him. Then came a woman--a sharp-tongued gossip (she's over yonder now by the side gate)--who managed to stir up trouble purely for the infernal joy of gossip, I suppose, between this girl and Thelma. I needn't go into detail; you probably do not care much for the general outline." "Go on," Jerry commanded.