For she reddened when she asked the question:  “I wonder if you feel about Ben as I feel about my brother—­that when you kiss him you are kissing a strange man?”

Peggy laughed.  “You would feel that way, of course.  For your brother is almost a stranger to you.”

“And do you kiss Ben often?” asked Mary.

“Ben doesn’t like it,” smiled Peggy.  “He is like most other men—­he likes to kiss the daughters of other men, but he gets sulky and balky when I want to kiss him.  So I don’t try very often.  Your brother is a fine, big fellow, but you will find before you have been around him very long that he wants to do his kissing away from home.”

Mary laughed, and blushed again.  “I have already discovered that,” she said.  “But, Peggy,” she added seriously, “I love him so much that believe I should be jealous if I thought he kissed another girl!”

Mary rode homeward, rather comforted over her visit.  And during the remaining days of Sanderson’s absence she succeeded in convincing herself that Sanderson’s attitude toward her was the usual attitude of brothers toward sisters, and that she had nothing of which to complain.

On the seventh day Sanderson and Owen returned.

Mary saw them ride in and she ran to the door and waved a hand to them. 
Owen flourished his hat at her, but Sanderson only grinned.

When Sanderson came in Mary did not attempt to kiss him, but she wanted to when he seized her hand and squeezed it warmly.  For it seemed to her that he was troubled over something.

She watched him narrowly for signs that would tell her of the nature of the trouble, but when he went to bed she had learned nothing.

At breakfast the next morning she asked him what he had discovered at Las Vegas.  He looked straight at her.

“There is no record of your birth,” he said.

She paled.  “Then Dale has grounds for his suspicion,” she said in a weak voice.

“Because your birth was not recorded is no sign you are not a Bransford,” he said.  “I’ll tell you this,” he added gruffly:  “as a sister you suit me from the ground up; an’ I’ll stick to you until hell freezes over!”

Not until that instant did she realize that she had entertained a fear that Sanderson would believe as Dale believed, and in an excess of joy over the discovery that he did believe in her she got up, ran around the table, seized Sanderson by the shoulders and laid her cheek against his.

“You’re a dear,” she said, “and I don’t care whether you like it or not, I am going to kiss you!”

“Just once,” he said, blushing.

She kissed him, and then leaned back, looking at him reprovingly.

“You haven’t returned a kiss I have given you!” she said.  “And I want you to!”

“All right,” he agreed, and this time the warmth of his response made her draw a long, deep breath.

Sanderson made his escape as soon as he decently could, and walked to a corner of the pasture fence where he stood, one arm resting on the top rail, his gaze on the basin.