hideous cups to the floor, and rushing out of the horrible
enclosure of walls and curtains--and as he bent over her she knew
he had had something stronger since--but he was so dear!

"Well, we've had a night of it, eh?" he said kindly. "Funny how
much one takes the little beggars for grawnted until it's one's
own that kicks up the row? You've not seen her--she's a nice
little beggar. You might get some sleep, I should think. I'm going
to hang around until some sort of a family jamboree is over, at
one o'clock--your mother insists that we have dinner--and then
I'll go out to the rawnch. But I'll be in in the morning!"

"Girl!" said Clara, apologetically, whimsically, deprecatingly,
her weak fingers clinging tightly to his.

"Ah, well, one carn't help that!" he answered philosophically.
"We'll have a row of jolly little chaps yet!"

But there was never another child. Clara, having cast her fortunes
in with her lord, was faithful to him through every breath she
drew. But before Rachael's first crying, feverish little summer
was over there had been some definite changes at the ranch. Thomas
was gone, and Clara, pale and exhausted with the heat, engaged
Ella, a young woman servant of her mother's selecting, to bake and
wash and carry in stove-wood. Clara managed them all, Gerald, the
baby, and the maid. Perhaps at first she was just a little
astonished to find her husband as easily managed as Ella and far
more easily managed than Rachael. Gerald Fairfax was surprised,
too, lazily conceding his altered little wife her new and
energetic way with a mental reservation that when she was strong