heartily. "Fine, Miss Barbara, fine, thank you. All we need in the
world now is for your father to give me time enough on that blamed
note to make a crop."

Barbara Worth was just tall enough to look straight into her
father's eyes. As she looked at him now the banker felt a little as
he had felt that night in the Desert, when the baby, whose dead
mother lay beside the dry water hole, shrank back from him in fear.

"Oh, I'm sure father will be glad to do that," the girl said
eagerly. "Won't you father? You know how hard Mr. Wheeler works and
what trouble he has had. And I want some money, too," she added;
"that's what I came in for."

The farmer laughed loudly. Jefferson Worth smiled.

"But I don't want it for myself," Barbara went on quickly, smiling
at them both. "I want it for that poor Mexican family down by the
wagon yard--the Garcias. Pablo's leg was broken in the mines, you
know, and there is no one to look after his mother and the children.
Someone must care for them."

They were interrupted by a clerk who handed a paper to the banker.
"This is ready for your signature, sir."

Jefferson Worth's face was again a cold, gray mask. Methodically he
affixed his name to the document. Then to the clerk: "You may give
Miss Worth whatever money she wants."

The employe smiled as he answered: "Yes, sir," and withdrew.