She watched while dark came and brought its star canopy,—­and did not bring Johnny.  Long after she saw the rim of hills draw back into vague shadows, she remained on the porch and listened for the hum of the airplane speeding toward her.  He would come, of course; he loved her.

Johnny did love her more than he had ever loved any one in his life, but a man’s love is not like a woman’s love, they say.

“He must have had some trouble with his motor,” Mary V observed optimistically to her sleepy parents, when their early bedtime arrived.  “I’m going to leave the lights all on, so he’ll see where to land.  It will be tremendously exciting to hear him come buzzing up in the dark.  It’ll sound exactly like an air raid—­only he won’t have any bombs to drop.”

“He’ll have himself to drop,” her mother tactlessly pointed out.  “I guess he won’t do much flying around in the dark, Mary V. Not if he’s got sense enough to come in when it rains.  You go to bed, and don’t be setting out there in the mosquitoes.  They’re thick, to-night.”

“Well, for gracious sake, mom!  It’s perfectly easy to fly at night.  Over in France they always—­”

“It’s the lightin’ I’m talking about,” her mother interrupted with that terrible logic that insists upon stating unpleasant truths, “And this ain’t France, Mary V. You go on to bed.  I’m going to turn out the lights.”

“And have him bump right into the house?  A person would think you wanted Johnny to smash himself all to pieces again!  And it isn’t going to cost anything so terrible to leave the lights on for another little minute, mom!  A few cents’ worth of gas will run the dynamo—­”

“For land’s sake, Mary V, don’t go into a tantrum just at bedtime.  Who’s talking about cost?  Your father can’t sleep with all the lights turned on in the house, and neither can I. And it ain’t a particle of use for you to sit up and wait for Johnny; he won’t come to-night, and you needn’t look for him.”

Mary V did not want to hear a statement of that kind, even if it were a mere argumentative flourish on the part of a selfish, unsympathetic parent who would jeopardize a person’s life rather than annoy herself with a light or two burning.  Mary V immediately had what her mother called a tantrum.  That is, she began to cry and to declaim unreasonably that no one cared whether Johnny smashed himself all to pieces in the dark—­that perhaps certain persons wished that Johnny would fall and be killed, just so they could sleep!

Her mother may have been weak in discipline, but now that Mary V was spoiled to the extent of having tantrums, she proved herself a sensible, level-headed sort of woman.  She went away to her bed quite unmoved by the tears and self-pity, and left Mary V alone.

“You turn out all the lights except the porch light, Mary V,” Old Sudden himself commanded from his bedroom door.  “I guess if he comes, one light will be as good as a dozen.  You better do as your mother tells you.  The kid’s got more sense than to tackle flying from Tucson after sundown.  If I thought he didn’t have, I’d kick him off the ranch!”