“I’d like to have her come over to see the twins,” said Curly to his spouse, “but I reckon like enough she’s sore.”

“I’d be mighty glad to have a good square talk with some woman from the States,” rejoined the Littlest Girl, hesitatingly.  “I’d sort of like to know what folks is wearin’ back there now.  Besides that—­”

“Besides what?”

“I don’t more’n half believe her and Dan Anderson is gettin’ along very well, someway.”

“That so?  Well, I don’t see how they can, the way he throwed the spurs into her pa the other night.”

“He just worships the ground that girl walks on.”

“You oughtn’t to talk so much.  That ain’t our business—­but how do you know?”

“Well, because I do know,” responded the Littlest Girl, warmly.  “Don’t you suppose I can see?  I’ve talked with Dan every time he come up here to buy a pie—­talked about that girl.  He buys more pies now than he used to.  I reckon I know.”

“That may all be.  Question is, how’s she a-feelin’ toward him these days?”

“Curly,” after a little silence, “I’m going to put on my bonnet and go over there and see that girl.  She’s all alone.  I’ll take her a pie.  I always did think she was nice.”

“Well, all right.  There’s Bill Godfrey drivin’ the stage out of his barn now.  I’ll go over to the post-office and help the old man with the mail.  May ride out as far as the ranch with Bill and see if Mac has anything special to do.  There was talk of that Nogal sheep outfit gettin’ in on the lower end of our range.  If they do, something’ll pop for sure.  You go on over to the hotel if you want to.  Ma’ll take care of the twins.”

The departure of the stage for Socorro occurred once a week or so, if all went well, and the event was always one of importance.  Even Mr. Ellsworth and Constance found themselves joining the groups which wandered now toward the post-office, next door to Whiteman’s store, in front of which Bill Godfrey regularly made his first stop preparatory to leaving town.  As they two passed up the street from the hotel, they missed the Littlest Girl, who crossed the arroyo above them by a quarter of a mile; Heart’s Desire being, in view of its population, a city of magnificent distances.

The man from Leavenworth, postmaster, had nearly finished the solemn performance of locking up the emaciated mail-bag for Socorro, and Bill Godfrey was looking intently at his watch—­which had not gone for six months—­when all at once the assemblage in and around the post-office was startled by shrieks, screams, and calls of the most alarming nature.  These rapidly approached from the direction of the arroyo, beyond which lay the residence portion of Heart’s Desire.  Presently there was to be distinguished the voice of a woman, raised in terrified lamentations, accompanied with the broken screams of a child in evident distress.  There