“I am sure it would be nice to have Pratt’s mother with us. I’d be delighted to have somebody’s mother in the house, Daddy,” said Frances, smiling. “You know, you’re the best father that ever lived; but you can’t be mother, too.”
“It’s what you’ve missed since you were a tiny little girl, Frances,” agreed Captain Rugley, gravely. “But just the same–I want ’em to show me a girl in all this blessed Panhandle that’s a better or finer girl than my Frances. Am I right, Pratt?”
“You most certainly are, Captain,” the young man agreed. “Or anywhere outside the Panhandle.”
Frances smiled at him roguishly. “Even from Boston, Pratt?” she whispered.
But Pratt forgave her for that.
Another picture of the Bar-T ranch-house on a late afternoon. The slanting rays of a westering sun lie across the floor of the main veranda. The family party idling there need no introduction save in a single particular.
A tall, well-built lady in black, and with grey hair, and who looks so much like Pratt Sanderson that the relationship between them could be seen at a glance, has the chair of honor. Mrs. Sanderson is making her first of many visits to the Bar-T.
Old Jonas P. Lonergan, his crutch beside him, is lying comfortably in another lounging chair. But he already looks much more vigorous.
Captain Dan Rugley, as ever, is tipped back against the wall in his favorite position. Frances is with her sewing at a low table, while Pratt is lying on the rug at his mother’s feet.