In ten years of constant struggle she cleared away the debts. And then,
since Vance gave her nothing but bills to pay, she began to buy out his
interest. He chose to learn his business lessons on Wall Street.
Elizabeth paid the bills, but she checked the sums against his interest
in the ranch. And so it went on. Vance would come out to the ranch at
intervals and show a brief, feverish interest, plan a new set of
irrigation canals, or a sawmill, or a better road out over the Blue
Mountains. But he dropped such work half-done and went away.

Elizabeth said nothing. She kept on paying his bills, and she kept on
cutting down his interest in the old Cornish ranch, until at the present
time he had only a finger-tip hold. Root and branch, the valley and all
that was in it belonged to Elizabeth Cornish. She was proud of her
possession, though she seldom talked of her pride. Nevertheless, Vance
knew, and smiled. It was amusing, because, after all, what she had done,
and all her work, would revert to him at her death. Until that time, why
should he care in whose name the ranch remained so long as his bills were
paid? He had not worked, but in recompense he had remained young.
Elizabeth had labored all her youth away. At forty-nine he was ready to
begin the most important part of his career. At sixty his sister was a
withered old ghost of a woman.

He fell into a pleasant reverie. When Elizabeth died, he would set in
some tennis courts beside the house, buy some blooded horses, cut the
road wide and deep to let the world come up Bear Creek Valley, and retire
to the life of a country gentleman.

His sister's voice cut into his musing. She had two tones. One might be
called her social register. It was smooth, gentle--the low-pitched and