In his old favorite seat down at the end of the lunch counter we see
Mr. Harley P. Hennage partaking of his evening meal. He has been away
from San Pasqual for three years, and he has just returned. Also he has
just decided to remain (for reasons best known to himself), although we
may be pardoned for presuming that it may be because he sees an old,
tender memory reflected in Donna's eyes. _Quien sabe?_ He is
older, homelier, sandier than when we saw him last, and he has gambled
much. So we can't read anything in his face. Moreover, we do not care
to. Instinctively our gaze reverts to Donna, for the day's work is
finished, she had proved her cash and is about to go home to the Hat
Ranch.

She is a woman now, a glorious, healthy, athletic creature, with wavy
hair, very fine and thick and black, and glossy as polished ebony. Her
face is tanned and glowing, and the halo of brilliant black hair only
serves to accentuate the glow and to remind us of an exquisite cameo
set in jet. She is taller by three inches than the average woman,
broad-shouldered, full-breasted, slim-waisted, a figure to haunt a
sculptor's memory.

She is dressed in a wash frock of light blue material, with a low
sailor collar that shows to bewildering effect her strong full throat.
She wears a flowing black silk navy reefer and when she puts on her hat
prior to leaving we realize that she has not studied male head-gear
alone, but has taken advantage of her semi-public position to copy
styles and to glean from the women's magazines, on sale at the counter,
the latest hints in metropolitan millinery.

This is the Donna Corblay that faces us this September evening. She has
developed from a girl into a woman, and we wonder if her mind, her