“Will it furnish bread and tea and jam for another outcast from civilization?”

“The spring shearing,” said the manager, “just cleaned up a deficit in last year’s business.  Wastefulness and inattention have been the rule heretofore.  The autumn clip will leave a small profit over all expenses.  Next year there will be jam.”

When, about four o’clock in the afternoon, the ponies rounded a gentle, brush-covered hill, and then swooped, like a double cream-coloured cyclone, upon the Rancho de las Sombras, Octavia gave a little cry of delight.  A lordly grove of magnificent live-oaks cast an area of grateful, cool shade, whence the ranch had drawn its name, “de las Sombras”—­of the shadows.  The house, of red brick, one story, ran low and long beneath the trees.  Through its middle, dividing its six rooms in half, extended a broad, arched passageway, picturesque with flowering cactus and hanging red earthern jars.  A “gallery,” low and broad, encircled the building.  Vines climbed about it, and the adjacent ground was, for a space, covered with transplanted grass and shrubs.  A little lake, long and narrow, glimmered in the sun at the rear.  Further away stood the shacks of the Mexican workers, the corrals, wool sheds and shearing pens.  To the right lay the low hills, splattered with dark patches of chaparral; to the left the unbounded green prairie blending against the blue heavens.

“It’s a home, Teddy,” said Octavia, breathlessly; that’s what it is—­it’s a home.”

“Not so bad for a sheep ranch,” admitted Teddy, with excusable pride.  “I’ve been tinkering on it at odd times.”

A Mexican youth sprang from somewhere in the grass, and took charge of the creams.  The mistress and the manager entered the house.

“Here’s Mrs. MacIntyre,” said Teddy, as a placid, neat, elderly lady came out upon the gallery to meet them.  “Mrs. Mac, here’s the boss.  Very likely she will be wanting a hunk of ham and a dish of beans after her drive.”

Mrs. MacIntyre, the housekeeper, as much a fixture on the place as the lake or the live-oaks, received the imputation of the ranch’s resources of refreshment with mild indignation, and was about to give it utterance when Octavia spoke.

“Oh, Mrs. MacIntyre, don’t apologize for Teddy.  Yes, I call him Teddy.  So does every one whom he hasn’t duped into taking him seriously.  You see, we used to cut paper dolls and play jackstraws together ages ago.  No one minds what he says.”

“No,” said Teddy, “no one minds what he says, just so he doesn’t do it again.”

Octavia cast one of those subtle, sidelong glances toward him from beneath her lowered eyelids—­a glance that Teddy used to describe as an upper-cut.  But there was nothing in his ingenuous, weather-tanned face to warrant a suspicion that he was making an allusion—­nothing.  Beyond a doubt, thought Octavia, he had forgotten.

“Mr. Westlake likes his fun,” said Mrs. Maclntyre, as she conducted Octavia to her rooms.  “But,” she added, loyally, “people around here usually pay attention to what he says when he talks in earnest.  I don’t know what would have become of this place without him.”