for a fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that
could not help distinguishing what these women lacked.

"Can you ride?" Florence was asking. "That's what a Westerner
always asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man--
astride, I mean? Oh, that's fine. You look strong enough to
hold a horse. We have some fine horses out here. I reckon when
Al comes we'll go out to Bill Stillwell's ranch. We'll have to
go, whether we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here
he'll just pack us all off. You'll love old Bill. His ranch is
run down, but the range and the rides up in the mountains--they
are beautiful. We'll hunt and climb, and most of all we'll ride.
I love a horse--I love the wind in my face, and a wide stretch
with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse on
the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all
the cowboys. We don't all agree about horses, except in case of
Gene Stewart's iron-gray."

"Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?" asked
Madeline. Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered
the wild flight of Stewart's big dark steed and rider.

"Yes, and that's all he does own," replied Florence. "Gene can't
keep even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him--"

At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the
conversation. Florence's sister went to open it. She returned
presently and said:

"It's Gene. He's been dawdlin' out there on the front porch, and