After a decent interval Mac pursued his _petite_ charmer to the hotel. She was seated on the porch reading a magazine, and was absorbedly unconscious of him when he passed. For a few awkward moments he hung around the office, then returned to the porch and took the chair most distant from her. He had sat there a long ten minutes before she let her hands and the magazine fall into her lap and demurely gave him his chance. “Can you tell me how far it is to the Lazy D ranch?” “Seventy-two miles as the crow flies, ma’am.” “Thank you.” The conversation threatened to die before it was well born. Desperately McWilliams tried to think of something to say to keep it alive without being too bold. “If y’u were thinking of traveling out that way I could give y’u a lift. I just came in to get another lady—an old lady that has just come to this country.” “Thank you, but I’m expecting a conveyance to meet me here. You didn’t happen to pass one on the way, I suppose?” “No, I didn’t. What ranch were y’u going to, ma’am? “Miss Messiter’s—the Lazy D.” A suspicion began to penetrate the foreman’s brain. “Y’u ain’t Miss Darling?” “What makes you so sure I’m not?” she asked, tilting her dimpled chin toward him aggressively. “Y’u’re too young,” he protested, helplessly. “I’m no younger than you are,” came her quick, indignant retort. Thus boldly accused of his youth, the foreman blushed. “I didn’t mean that. Miss Messiter said she was an old lady—” “You needn’t tell fibs about it. She couldn’t have said anything of the kind. Who are _you_, anyhow?” the girl demanded, with spirit. “I’m the foreman of the Lazy D, come to get Miss Darling. My name is McWilliams—Jim McWilliams.” “I don’t need your first name, Mr. McWilliams,” she assured him, sweetly. “And will you please tell me why you have kept me waiting here more than thirty hours?” “Miss Messiter didn’t get your letter in time. Y’u see, we don’t get mail every day at the Lazy D,” he explained, the while he hopefully wondered just when she was going to need his last name. “I don’t see why you don’t go after your mail every day at least, especially when Miss Messiter was expecting me. To leave me waiting here thirty hours—I’ll not stand it. When does the next train leave for Detroit?” she asked, imperiously. The situation seemed to call for diplomacy, and Jim McWilliams moved to a nearer chair. “I’m right sorry it happened, ma’am, and I’ll bet Miss Messiter is, too. Y’u see, we been awful busy one way and ’nother, and I plumb neglected to send one of the boys to the post-office.” “Why didn’t one of them walk over after supper?” she demanded, severely. He curbed the smile that was twitching at his facial muscles. “Well, o’ course it ain’t so far,—only forty-three miles—still—” “Forty-three miles to the post-office?” “Yes, ma’am, only forty-three. If you’ll excuse me this time—” “Is it really forty-three?”