“Why, Ma!  What’s the matter?—­” as Mrs. Bailey blinked and showed unmistakable signs of emotion.

“Nothing, Pete.  I reckon your coming back so sudden and all you been through, and that letter, kind of upset me.  D-does she powder her face, Pete?”

“Who?  You mean Miss Gray?  Why, what would she do that for?”

“Does she wear clothes that—­that cost lots of money?”

“Great snakes, Ma!  I dunno.  I never seen her except in the hospital, dressed jest like all the nurses.”

“Is—­is she handsome?”

“Say, Ma, you let me hold them blankets.  They’re gittin’ you all sagged down.  Why, she ain’t what I’d say was handsome, but she sure got pretty eyes and hair—­and complexion—­and the smoothest little hands—­and she’s built right neat.  She steps easy—­like a thoroughbred filly—­and she’s plumb sensible, jest like you folks.”

This latter assurance did not seem to comfort Ma Bailey as much as the implied compliment might intimate.

“And there’s only one other woman I ever saw that made me feel right to home and kind o’ glad to have her round, like her.  And she’s got gray eyes and the same kind of hair, and—­”

“Sakes alive, Pete Annersley!  Another?”

“Uh-huh.  And I’m kissin’ her good-night—­right now.”  And Pete grabbed the blankets and as much of Ma Bailey as could be included in that large armful, and kissed her heartily.

“He’s changed,” Ma Bailey confided to herself, after Pete had disappeared.  “Actin’ like a boy—­to cheer me up.  But it weren’t no boy that set there readin’ that letter.  It was a growed man, and no wonder.  Yes, Pete’s changed, bless his heart!”

Ma Bailey did not bless Pete’s heart because he had changed, however, nor because he had suffered, nor yet because he was unconsciously in love with a little nurse in El Paso, nor yet because he kissed her, but because she liked him:  and because no amount of money or misfortune, blame or praise, could really change him toward his friends.  What Ma Bailey meant was that he had grown a little more serious, a little more gentle in his manner of addressing her—­aside from saying good-night—­and a little more intense in a quiet way.  To sum it all up, Pete had just begun to think—­something that few people do on the verdant side of forty, and rather dread having to do on the other side of that mile-post.

A week later, as they sat at table asking one another whether Ma Bailey had took to makin’ pies ag’in jest for practice or for Pete, and plaguing that good woman considerably with their good-natured banter, it occurred to Bill Haskins to ask Pete if he were going to become a permanent member of the family or if he were simply visiting; only Bill said, “Are you aimin’ to throw in with us—­or are you goin’ to curl your tail and drift, when the snow flies?”

“I reckon I’ll drift,” said Pete.

This was news.  Andy White demurred forcibly.  Bailey himself seemed surprised, and even old Hank Barley, the silent, expressed himself as mildly astonished.