"Westlake?"
"Yes. He wanted me to tell you before he went. He's very fond of you, Sandy."
"Is he?" Sandy spoke slowly, rousing himself with an effort. "I think he's a fine chap. I sure wish him all the luck in the world." He fancied his voice sounded flat.
"I suppose you wondered why we were so chummy all the evening?"
"Yes. I wondered a li'l' about that." Sandy did not look at her, but gazed into the dying fire. He saw himself sitting there, lonely, woman-shy once more, through the long stretch of years, with a letter coming once in a while from far-off places telling of a happiness that he had hoped for and yet had known could not be for him; Sandy Bourke, cow-puncher, two-gun man, rancher, growing old.
"I was the first girl he had seen for a long while, you see," Molly was saying. "And he had to talk it over with some one. He told me about it first this morning and then the telegram came."
"Talkin' about what?"
"His sweetheart. Now he can marry her with this opportunity. She may sail with him. Isn't it fine? He showed me her picture."
"It's the best news I've heard fo' a long time," answered Sandy soberly.
"I'm sleepy," said Molly. "Good night, Sandy, dear."