"And it's all such a surprise, too," interposed Alma Lane; "milk, and butter, and all." Genevieve stared frankly. "Surprise!--_milk and butter!_" she exclaimed. "Didn't you suppose we had milk and butter?" Alma blushed. "Why, Genevieve, I--I didn't mean anything, you know, truly I didn't," she stammered. "It's only that--that ranches don't usually have them, you know." "Don't usually have them!" frowned Genevieve. "Alma Lane, what _are_ you talking about?" "Why, we read it, you know, in a book," explained Cordelia, hastily, coming to the rescue. "They said in spite of there being so many cows all around everywhere, there wasn't any butter or milk, and that the cowboys wouldn't like to be asked to milk, you know." "You read it? Where?" Genevieve's forehead still wore its frown. Mr. Hartley gave a chuckling laugh. "I reckon Genevieve doesn't know much about such ranches," he observed. "As I was telling you, Miss Cordelia, coming out this afternoon, there's just as much difference in ranches as there is in folks; and ours happens to be the kind where we like all the comforts of home pretty well. To be sure, I wouldn't just like to ask Reddy or Long John to milk, maybe," he added, with a whimsical smile; "but I don't have to, you see. I've got Carlos for just such work. He looks after the vegetable garden, too, and Genevieve's flowers. By the way, dearie,"--he turned to his daughter--"Tim says Carlos has been putting in his prettiest work on your garden this summer. Be sure you don't forget to notice it." "As if I could help noticing it," returned Genevieve. She was about to say more when there came an earnest question from Cordelia. "Mr. Hartley, please, what did you call those two men?" "What men?" "The ones you--you wouldn't wish to ask to milk." "Oh, the boys? I don't remember--I reckon 'twas Reddy and Long John that I mentioned, maybe." "Yes, sir; that's the one I mean--the John one. What is his other name, please?" "His surname? Why, really, Miss Cordelia, I reckon I've forgotten what it is. The boys all go by their first names, mostly, else by a nickname. Why? Found a long-lost friend?" "Oh, no, sir. Well, I mean--that is--he may be lost, but he isn't mine," stammered Cordelia, who was always very literal. "Then don't blush so, Cordy," bantered Tilly, wickedly, "else we shall think he is yours." Cordelia blushed a still deeper pink, but she said nothing; and in the confusion of leaving the dining-room she managed to place herself as far from Tilly as possible. On the back gallery she saw the ranch foreman. As the others went chattering through the hall to the gallery beyond, she lingered timidly. "Mr. Nolan, would--would you please tell me Mr.--Mr. John's other name?" "John? Oh, you mean 'Long John,' Miss?" "Yes; but--'John' what?" Tim Nolan frowned. "Why, let me see,"--he bit his lip in thought--"'Pierce'--no, 'Proctor.' Yes, that's it--'John Proctor.'"