Patches very quickly, but without offense, found that the door, which his friend had opened in the long dark hours of that lonely night ride, had closed again; and, thinking that he understood, he made no attempt to force his way.  But, for some reason, Patches appeared to be in an unusually happy frame of mind, and went singing and whistling about the corrals and buildings as though exceedingly well pleased with himself and with the world.

The following day was Sunday.  In the afternoon, Patches was roaming about the premises, keeping at a safe distance from the walnut trees in front of the house, where the professor had cornered the Dean, thus punishing both Patches and his employer by preventing one of their long Sunday talks which they both so much enjoyed.  Phil had gone off somewhere to be alone, and Mrs. Baldwin was reading aloud to Little Billy.  Honorable Patches was left very much to himself.

From the top of the little hill near the corrals, he looked across the meadow at exactly the right moment to see someone riding away from the neighboring ranch.  He watched until he was certain that whoever it was was not coming to the Cross-Triangle—­at least, not by way of the meadow lane.  Then, smiling to himself, he went to the big barn and saddled a horse—­there are always two or three that are not turned out in the pasture—­and in a few minutes was riding leisurely away on the Simmons road, along the western edge of the valley.  An hour later he met Kitty Reid, who was on her way from Simmons to the Cross-Triangle.

The young woman was sincerely glad to meet him.

“But you were going to Simmons, were you not?” she asked, as he reined his horse about to ride with her.

“To be truthful, I was going to Simmons if I met anyone else, or if I had not met you,” he answered.  Then, at her puzzled look, he explained, “I saw someone leave your house, and guessed that it was you.  I guessed, too, that you would be coming this way.”

“And you actually rode out to meet me?”

“Actually,” he smiled.

They chatted about the rodeo, and the news of the countryside—­for it had been several weeks since they had met—­and so reached the point of the last ridge before you come to the ranch.  Then Patches asked, “May we ride over there on the ridge, and sit for a while in the shade of that old cedar, for a little talk?  It’s early yet, and it’s been ages since we had a pow-wow.”

Reaching the point which Patches had chosen, they left their horses and made themselves comfortable on the brow of the hill, overlooking the wide valley meadow and the ranches.

“And now,” said Kitty, looking at him curiously, “what’s the talk, Mr. Honorable Patches?”

“Just you,” said Patches, gravely.

“Me?”

“Your own charming self,” he returned.

“But, please, good sir, what have I done?” she asked.  “Or, perhaps, it’s what have I not done?”