Presently Lorry appeared, his face grimy and his hands streaked with
oil. "Nothin' busted," he reported cheerfully. "We got a car over to
the ranch. She's been busted a-plenty. I fixed her up more times than I
can remember. Cars is like horses ma'am; no two just alike, but kind of
generally the same. The steering-knuckle ain't broke. It's the left axle
that's sprung. That won't take long to straighten."

Mrs. Weston smiled. Lorry thought she was actually pretty. She saw this
in his eyes, and flushed slightly.

"And I'll just block her up and take off the wheel, and I reckon the
blacksmith can straighten that axle easy."

"It's very nice of you. But I am wondering why you didn't go on the
picnic--with the others."

"Well, who'd 'a' kept you company, ma'am? Anita, she's busy. Anyhow, I
seen plenty of scenery. I'd rather be here."

"Talking to a woman old enough to be your mother?"

"Huh! I never thought of you like that. I'm only eighteen. Anyhow, what
difference does it make how old a lady is, if she is pretty?"

Mrs. Weston's eyes twinkled. "Do you ever pay compliments to yourself
when you are combing your hair or tying your scarf?"

"Me! Why, not so anybody could hear 'em. Now, I think my mother is right
pretty, Mrs. Weston."