They had just brightened a bit before Patsy’s Sunday breakfast, which included hot-cakes and maple syrup, when the door was pushed quietly open and the Little Doctor came in, followed closely by Miss Martin; an apologetic Little Doctor, who seemed, by her very manner of entering, to implore them not to blame her for the intrusion.  Miss Martin was not apologetic.  She was disconcertingly eager and glad to meet them, and pathetically anxious to win their favor.

Miss Martin talked, and the Happy Family ate hurriedly and with lowered eyelids.  Miss Martin asked questions, and the Happy Family kicked one another’s shins under the table by way of urging someone to reply; for this reason there was a quite perceptible pause between question and answer, and the answer was invariably “the soul of wit”—­according to that famous recipe.  Miss Martin told them naively all about her hopes and her plans and herself, and about the distant woman’s club that took so great an interest in their welfare, and the Happy Family listened dejectedly and tried to be polite.  Also, they did not relish the hot-cakes as usual, and Patsy had half the batter left when the meal was over, instead of being obliged to mix more, as was usually the case.

When they had eaten, the Happy Family filed out decorously and went hastily down to the stables.  They did not say much, but they did glance over their shoulders uneasily once or twice.

“The old girl is sure hot on our trail,” Pink remarked when they were safely through the big gate.  “She must uh got us mixed up with some Wild West show, in her mind.  Josephine!”

“Well, by golly, she don’t improve me,” Slim repeated for about the tenth time.

The horses were all fed and everything tidy for the day, and several saddles were being hauled down significantly from their pegs, when Irish delivered himself of a speech, short but to the point.  Irish had been very quiet and had taken no part in the discussion that had waxed hot all that morning.

“Now, see here,” he said in his decided way.  “Maybe it didn’t strike you as anything but funny—­which it sure is.  But yuh want to remember that the old girl has come a dickens of a long ways to do us some good.  She’s been laying awake nights thinking about how we’ll get to calling her something nice:  Angel of the Roundup, maybe—­you can’t tell, she’s that romantic.  And right here is where I’m going to give the old girl the worth of her money.  It won’t hurt us, letting her talk wild and foolish at us once a week, maybe; and the poor old thing’ll just be tickled to death thinking what a lot uh good she’s doing.  She won’t stay long, and—­well, I go in.  If she’ll feel better and more good to the world improving me, she’s got my permission.  I guess I can stand it a while.”

The Happy Family looked at him queerly, for if there was a black sheep in the flock, Irish was certainly the man; and to have Irish take the stand he did was, to say the least, unexpected.