Weary made a rapid, mental note for the benefit of the Happy
Family--and particularly Cal Emmett. "Darling Brother" was a myth,
then; he ought to have known it, all along. And if that were a myth,
so probably were all those messages and things that he had hated. She
didn't care anything about him--and suddenly that struck him
unpleasantly, instead of being a relief, as it consistently should have
been.

"I wish you'd adopt me, just for to-night, and go;" he said, and his
eyes backed the wish. "You see," he added artfully, "it's a sin to
waste all that good music--a real, honest-to-God stringed orchestra
from Great Falls, and--"

"Meekers have taken both rigs," objected she, weakly.

"I noticed a side saddle hanging in the stable," he wheedled, "and I'll
gamble I can rustle something to put it on. I--"

"I should think you'd gambled enough for one day," she quelled. "But
that chunky little gray in the pasture is the horse I always ride. I
expect," she sighed, "my new dancing dress would be a sight to behold
when I got there--and it won't wash. But what does a mere man care--"

"Wrap it up in something, and I'll carry it for yuh," Weary advised
eagerly. "You can change at the hotel. It's dead easy." He picked up
his hat from the floor, rose and stood looking anxiously down at her.
"About how soon," he insinuated, "can you be ready?"

The schoolma'am looked up at him irresolutely, drew a long breath and