A strange being rode out of the brush among them, and there sat his horse languidly. He was stained and disfigured with the green of the grass and the limestone of rocky roads. “Hallo, Pearson,” said Daddy Weaver. “Look like you’ve been breaking a mustang. What’s that you’ve got tied to your saddle—a pig in a poke?” “Oh, come on, Tonia, if you’re going,” said Betty Rogers. “We mustn’t wait any longer. We’ve saved a seat in the buckboard for you. Never mind the hat. That lovely muslin you’ve got on looks sweet enough with any old hat.” Pearson was slowly untying the queer thing on his saddle. Tonia looked at him with a sudden hope. Pearson was a man who created hope. He got the thing loose and handed it to her. Her quick fingers tore at the strings. “Best I could do,” said Pearson slowly. “What Road Runner and me done to it will be about all it needs.” “Oh, oh! it’s just the right shape,” shrieked Tonia. “And red roses! Wait till I try it on!” She flew in to the glass, and out again, beaming, radiating, blossomed. “Oh, don’t red become her?” chanted the girls in recitative. “Hurry up, Tonia!” Tonia stopped for a moment by the side of Road Runner. “Thank you, thank you, Wells,” she said, happily. “It’s just what I wanted. Won’t you come over to Cactus to-morrow and go to church with me?” “If I can,” said Pearson. He was looking curiously at her hat, and then he grinned weakly. Tonia flew into the buckboard like a bird. The vehicles sped away for Cactus. “What have you been doing, Pearson?” asked Daddy Weaver. “You ain’t looking so well as common.” “Me?” said Pearson. “I’ve been painting flowers. Them roses was white when I left Lone Elm. Help me down, Daddy Weaver, for I haven’t got any more paint to spare.” ROUND THE CIRCLE [This story is especially interesting as an early treatment (1902) of the theme afterward developed with a surer hand in The Pendulum.] “Find yo’ shirt all right, Sam?” asked Mrs. Webber, from her chair under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paper-back volume for company. “It balances perfeckly, Marthy,” answered Sam, with a suspicious pleasantness in his tone. “At first I was about ter be a little reckless and kick ’cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn’t go so fur as to say the buttons is any loss to speak of.” “Oh, well,” said his wife, carelessly, “put on your necktie—that’ll keep it together.” Sam Webber’s sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the country between the Nueces and the Frio. The ranch house—a two-room box structure—was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst of a wilderness of high chaparral. In front of it was a small clearing where stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few feet back of it began the thorny jungle.