"Aren't they terrors!" said Mrs. Porter in reference to the nurse-maids that would not come to the ranch on any terms. "What do they expect anyway?"
"Oh, they get lonesome," Molly said in discouragement, "and of course it is lonely! But I should think some middle-aged woman or some widow with a child even—"
"Molly always returns to that possible widow!" said her husband. "I think we might try two!"
"I would never think of that!" said the mistress of the ranch firmly. "Four servants always underfoot!"
"Did you ever think of trying a regular trained nurse, Molly?" Peter Porter asked.
"But then you have them at the table, Peter—and always in the drawing-room evenings. And no matter how nice they are—"
"That's the worst of that!" agreed Peter.
Jerry Tressady threw the Mail on the floor and sat up.
"Who's this coming up now, Molly?" he asked.
He had lowered his voice, because the white-clad young woman who was coming composedly up the path between the sunflowers and the overloaded rose-bushes was already within hearing distance. She was a heavy, well-developed young person upon closer view, with light-lashed eyes of a guileless, childlike blue, rosy cheeks, and a mass of bright, shining hair, protected now only by a parasol. Through the embroidery insertion of her fresh, stiff dress she showed glimpses of a snowy bosom, and under her crisp skirt a ruffle of white petticoat and white-shod feet were visible. She was panting from her walk and wiped her glowing face with her handkerchief before she spoke.