could not believe her eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong-jawed,
eagle-eyed man, stalwart, superb of height, and, like the
cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. And there was something hard
as iron in his face that quivered with his words. It seemed that
only in those moments when the hard lines broke and softened
could she see resemblance to the face she remembered. It was his
manner, the tone of his voice, and the tricks of speech that
proved to her he was really Alfred. She had bidden good-by to a
disgraced, disinherited, dissolute boy. Well she remembered the
handsome pale face with its weakness and shadows and careless
smile, with the ever-present cigarette hanging between the lips.
The years had passed, and now she saw him a man--the West had
made him a man. And Madeline Hammond felt a strong, passionate
gladness and gratefulness, and a direct check to her suddenly
inspired hatred of the West.

"Majesty, it was good of you to come. I'm all broken up. How
did you ever do it? But never mind that now. Tell me about that
brother of mine."

And Madeline told him, and then about their sister Helen.
Question after question he fired at her; and she told him of her
mother; of Aunt Grace, who had died a year ago; of his old
friends, married, scattered, vanished. But she did not tell him
of his father, for he did not ask.

Quite suddenly the rapid-fire questioning ceased; he choked, was
silent a moment, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her
that a long, stored-up bitterness was flooding away. It hurt her
to see him--hurt her more to hear him. And in the succeeding few