A shining smile rewarded her interest in the recent invalid.  “Fine and dandy.  You ought to see her walk!”

“Isn’t that splendid!  And how’s the little boy?  Is he with you?”

“No, ma’am.  I kind o’ left him to mind the ranch.  He’s gettin’ to be a real rancher, that boy.  He was sure sorry not to make Hidden Creek this trip, though.  Say, he was set on seein’ you.  I told him about you.”

Sheila’s face flamed and her eyes smarted.  Gratitude and shame possessed her.  This man, then, did not speak of her as “Hudson’s Queen”—­not if he told his boy about her.  She turned away to hide the flame and smart.  When she looked back, Sylvester himself stood at Thatcher’s elbow.  He very rarely came into the saloon.  At sight of him Sheila’s heart leaped as though it had been struck.

“Say, Sheila,” he murmured, “I’m celebratin’ to-night.”

She tried to dismiss from her mind its new and ugly consciousness.  She tried to smile.  The result was an expression strange enough.

Sylvester, however, missed it.  He was dressed in one of the brown checked suits, a new one, freshly creased; there was a red wild-rose bud in his buttonhole.  The emerald gleamed on his well-kept, sallow hand.  He was sipping from his glass and had put a confidential hand on Thatcher’s shoulder.  He grinned at Carthy.

“Well, sir,” he said, “nobody has in-quired as to my celebration.  But I’m not proud.  I’ll tell you.  I’m celebratin’ to-night the winnin’ of a bet.”

“That’s sure a deservin’ cause,” said Thatcher.

“Yes, sir.  Had a bet with Carthy here.  Look at him blush!  Carthy sure-ly hates to be wrong.  And he’s mostly right in his prog-nos-ti-cations.  He sure is.  You bet yer.  That’s why I’m so festive.”

“What’d he prognosticate?” asked Thatcher obligingly.  He had moved his shoulder away from Hudson’s hand.

Sylvester wrinkled his upper lip into its smile and looked down into his glass.  He turned his emerald.

“Carthy prophesied that about this time a little—­er—­dream—­of mine would go bust,” said Hudson.  He lifted up his eyes pensively to Sheila, first his eyes and then his glass.  “Here’s to my dream—­you, girl,” he said softly.

He drank with his eyes upon her face, drew a deep breath, and looked about the room.

Thatcher glanced from him to Sheila.  “Goodnight to you, ma’am,” he said with gentleness.  “Next time I’ll bring the boy.”

“Please, please do.”

Sheila put her hand in his.  He looked down at it as though something had startled him.  In fact, her touch was like a flake of snow.

When Thatcher had gone, Sylvester leaned closer to her across the bar.  He moved his glass around in his hand and looked up at her humbly.

“The tables kind of turned, eh?” he said.

“What do you mean, Mr. Hudson?” Sheila, by lifting her voice, tried to dissipate the atmosphere of confidence, of secrecy.  Carthy had moved away from them, the other occupants of the saloon were very apparently not listening.