smith drew thoughtfully at his cigar, and shifted himself more comfortably into his chair. it was long since he had visited the west, and he had found all the old magic in the still, scented darkness of the prairie night. he gave a little sigh of content. when john, a year before, had announced his intention of buying this ranch, and, as it seemed to smith, burying himself alive a thousand miles from anywhere, he had disapproved. he had pointed out that john was not doing what fate expected of him. a miracle, in the shape of a six-figure wedding present from mrs. oakley, who had never been known before, in the memory of man, to give away a millionth of that sum, had happened to him. fate, argued smith, plainly intended him to stay in new york and spend his money in a civilized way.