Below the house, leaning against the low fence enclosing the oblong piece of ground called “the garden,” Mr. Ashe found Uncle Joe Terry, ranch foreman, and his chief adviser in the difficult task of bringing up his orphan niece.
Uncle Joe was smoking placidly, his eyes on the wild riot of color which was one of the principal characteristics of Blue Bonnet’s garden. “Tell you what,” he said, as Mr. Ashe came up, “this here place needs weeding. Blue Bonnet ain’t been keeping an eye on Miguel lately.”
Blue Bonnet’s uncle stood a moment looking down at the neglected garden. “Yes,” he said, “and it’s not only the garden, Joe, that’s been left to itself lately.”
“She ain’t been out on Firefly this two weeks,” Uncle Joe commented. “What’s wrong, Cliff?”
“She wants to go East.”
“So that’s it? Well, I reckon it’s natural—wants to run with the other young folks, I suppose?”
“But—Joe, she says she hates—the ranch.”
Uncle Joe puffed at his pipe thoughtfully. “Hm—so she says that? She always was an outspoken little piece, Cliff.”
“She says, too, that she means to sell.”
“My lady must be a bit excited. Well, it won’t be to-morrow, Cliff, and a whole lot of things can happen in six years. You just give my lady her head; she’s looking to be crossed, and she’s all braced up to pull the other way. All you want to do is to go with her a bit.”