announced. "Pete or somebody's been using my saddle."

"I came to bring you this 'first-aid' bandage for your hand," said
his daughter.

Cahill gave a shrug of impatience.

"My hand's all right," he said; "you go to bed. I've got to begin
taking account of stock."

"To-night?"

"There's no time by day. Go to bed."

For nearly an hour Miss Cahill lay awake listening to her father
moving about in the shop below. Never before had he spoken roughly to
her, and she, knowing how much the thought that he had done so would
distress him, was herself distressed.

In his lonely vigil on the veranda, Ranson looked from the post down
the hill to where the light still shone from Mary Cahill's window. He
wondered if she had heard the news, and if it were any thought of him
that kept sleep from her.

"You ass! you idiot!" he muttered. "You've worried and troubled her.
She believes one of her precious army is a thief and a murderer." He
cursed himself picturesquely, but the thought that she might possibly
be concerned on his account, did not, he found, distress him as
greatly as it should. On the contrary, as he watched the light his
heart glowed warmly. And long after the light went out he still