“I can’t tell you much about the statue,” replied Bailey, watching the curve ahead.  “Mr. Banks engaged the sculptor; some noted man in the east.  He is carrying the responsibility; it was his idea.  But it was to have been in place, ready to be unveiled by the fifteenth, and there was some delay.”

After that, the mayor was silent, devoting his attention to the speeding car.  They left the park and, taking the river road, arrived presently at the bungalow.  The shingles still lacked staining, the roof was incomplete, but a sprinkler threw rainbow mist over the new lawn, which was beginning to show shades of green.  A creeper, planted at the corner of the veranda, already sent out pale, crinkled shoots.

Lucky Banks came beaming down the steps, and Annabel, in a crisp frock of royal blue taffeta, stood smiling a welcome as the automobile stopped.  Then Bailey, springing down to throw open the door of the tonneau, lifted his voice to say:  “And this—­is the home of the Editor of the Weatherbee Record and Mrs. Daniels.”

They did not at once grasp his meaning, and the prospector made it clear as they went up to the veranda.  “The house is a wedding present from Mrs. Banks,” he said; “and Mr. Bailey, here, put up the lot, so’s I thought this would come in handy; it will take quite a bunch of furniture.”

There was a silent moment while Geraldine stood regarding the envelope he had put in her hand.  She was looking her best in a trim, tailored suit of gray.  There was a turquoise facing to the brim of her smart gray hat, but her only ornaments were a sorority pin fastened to the lapel of her coat and a gold button that secured her watch in the small breast pocket made for it.  At last she looked up, an unusual flush warmed her face, and she began:  “It’s perfectly lovely of you—­we are so surprised—­we never can thank you enough.”

But Jimmie turned away.  He stood looking down the valley in the direction of that place, not very far off, where his mother had carried water up the steep slope in the burning desert sun.  His forehead creased; he closed his lips tight over a rising sob.  Then Geraldine laid her hand on his arm.  “Do you understand what these people have done for us?” she asked unconventionally.  “Did you hear?”

Jimmie swung around.  His glance met Annabel’s.  “I can’t explain how I feel about it,” he burst out, “but I know if my mother could have been here now, it—­this—­would have paid her for all—­she missed.  I don’t deserve it—­but Geraldine does; and I pledge myself to stay by the Weatherbee Record as long as you want me to.  I don’t see how I can help making good.”

Then Annabel, winking hard, hastily led the way over the house; and, presently, when the party returned to the table in the veranda, and the Japanese boy she had brought from the ranch house was successfully passing the fried chicken, she wanted to know about the wedding.