which he had removed like a good shearer, all in one piece. He held the ewe's head between his knees while he marked with brush and paint a big black D on its side, Mrs. Duke nodding approval, her bare arms on the fence.
Rawlins came across the lot for further instructions. A wagon was coming down the road at a brisk pace, having that moment broken into view around the turn, a cloud of dust rising high in the still air behind it. The two women had turned to watch the approach of the wagon, travelers on that road being few.
"That's a livery rig from Lost Cabin," Mrs. Duke said in surprise. "Ain't that Smith Phogenphole drivin'?"
"Yes," said Edith weakly.
"I wonder where he's takin' that man? It can't be a wool-buyer around this late. Why, they're turnin' in here!"
The stout spring wagon was bouncing and jolting across the rocky ford of the little stream, the deepest of its water not more than up to the hubs, the passenger clinging desperately to the seat. The vehicle struck dry land with a lurch, nearly pitching the passenger out on the horses' backs. The driver made a sudden clutch for the man's coat and hauled him back, laughing loudly.
Mrs. Duke confronted her niece with open mouth and staring eyes.
"Edith Stone! That's him!" she said. "I'd know that moustache in a million. That's him—that's your mail-order beau!"
"I didn't think he'd come," said Edith miserably,
