lap, and the effort met with no response. Lulled by the
somniferous droning of insects and lazy echoes from afar, Miss
Chapin was on the verge of slumber, when she saw her guest
rapidly turn the last pages of her novel, then, with a chocolate
between her teeth, read wide-eyed to the finish. Miss Blake
closed the book reluctantly, uncurled slowly, then stared out
through the dancing heat-waves, her blue eyes shadowed with
romance.

"Did she marry him?" queried Jean.

"No, no!" Helen Blake sighed, blissfully. "It was infinitely
finer. She killed herself."

"I like to see them get married."

"Naturally. You are at that stage. But I think suicide is more
glorious, in many cases."

Miss Chapin yawned openly. "Speaking of suicides, isn't this
ranch the deadest place?"

"Oh, I don't think so at all." Miss Blake picked her way
fastidiously through the bonbons, nibbling tentatively at several
before making her choice. "Oh yes, you do, and you needn't be
polite just because you're a guest." "Well, then, to be as
truthful as a boarder, it _is_ a little dull. Not for our
chaperon, though. The time doesn't seem to drag on her hands.
Jack certainly is making it pleasant for her."