The possession of money, though it meant the difference between poverty and debt and great comfort, had, to date, made very little change in the mode of living of Miss Faith and Miss Charity Saunders, or of their nephew.

This morning he had been delayed by some extra work on the farm, for the oil company did not take possession till the first of the month, now a week away, and Betty had ridden to the oil fields ahead of him.  She divided her time between the Saunders’ place and the Watterby farm, where she and Bob had stayed when they first came to Flame City.

“Whew!” gasped Bob as they finally emerged from the black curtain of oil.  “Of all the messy stuff!  Betty, you look as though an oil lamp had exploded in your face.”

“Now I’ll have to wash my hair again,” mourned Betty.  “You’d better come to Grandma Watterby’s and get tidied up, Bob.  It’s nearer than your aunts’, taking this road; and they always have the stove tank full of hot water.”

Bob took this advice, and the sympathetic Watterby family came to the oil-spotted pair’s assistance with copious supplies of hot water, soap and towels and liberal handfuls of borax, for the water was very hard.  Fortunately, Betty had a clean blouse and skirt at hand (most of her wardrobe was in the guest room at the Saunders farm), and Bob borrowed a clean shirt from Will Watterby, in which the boy, being much smaller than the man, looked a little absurd.

“I’m clean, anyway, and that makes me feel good, so why should I care how I look?” was Bob’s defense when his appearance was commented on.

“I’m so hungry,” announced Betty, coming out of her room, once more trim and neat, and sniffing the delicious odor of hot waffles.  “I wonder if I could pin my hair up in a towel and dry it after lunch?”

“Of course you may,” said Mrs. Will Watterby warmly.  “Did you fix a place for Betty, Grandma?”

“What a silly question, Emma,” reproved old Grandma Watterby severely.  “Here, Betty, you sit next to me, and Bob can have Will’s place.  He’s gone over to Flame City with a bolt he wants the blacksmith to tinker up.”

Ki, the Indian who helped with the farm work, smiled at Betty but said nothing more than the single “Howdy,” which was his stock form of salutation.  Mrs. Watterby’s waffles were quite as good as they smelled, and she apparently had mixed an inexhaustible quantity of batter.  Every one ate rapidly and in comparative silence, a habit to which Bob and Betty were by now quite accustomed.  When Mr. Gordon was present he insisted on a little conversation, but his presence was lacking to-day.

“You go right out in the sun and dry your hair, Betty,” said Mrs. Watterby, when the meal was over.  “No, I don’t need any help with the dishes.  Grandma and me, we’re going over to town in the car this afternoon and I don’t care whether I do the dishes till I come back or not.”

This, for Mrs. Watterby, was a great step forward.  Before the purchase of the automobile, bought with a legacy inherited by Grandma Watterby, dishes and housework had been the sum total of Mrs. Will Watterby’s existence.  Now that she could drive the car and get away from her kitchen sink at will, she seemed another woman.