and--"

"I'm very glad to meet you," said Charming Billy stammeringly. "Won't
you sit down? I--I wish I'd known company was coming." He smiled
reassuringly, and then glanced frowningly around the cabin. Even for
a line-camp, he told himself disgustedly, it was "pretty sousy." "You
must be cold," he added, seeing her glance toward the stove. "I'll
have a fire going right away; I've been pretty busy and just let
things slide." He threw the un-smoked half of his cigarette into the
ashes and felt not a quiver of regret. He knew who she was, now; she
was the daughter he had heard about, and who belonged to the place
where the stove was black and shining and the table had a red cloth
with knotted fringe. It must have been her mother whom he had seen
there--but she had looked very young to be mother of a young lady.

Charming Billy brought himself rigidly to consider the duties of a
host; swept his arm across a bench to clear it of sundry man garments,
and asked her again to sit down. When she did so, he saw that her
fingers were clasped tightly to hold her from shivering, and he raved
inwardly at his shiftlessness the while he hurried to light a fire in
the stove.

"Too bad your horse fell," he remarked stupidly, gathering up the
handful of shavings he had whittled from a piece of pine board. "I
always hate to see a horse get hurt." It was not what he had wanted
to say, but he could not seem to put just the right thing into words.
What he wanted was to make her feel that there was nothing out of the
ordinary in her being there, and that he was helpful and sympathetic
without being in the least surprised. In all his life on the range he
had never had a young woman walk into a line-camp at dusk--a strange