Don Carlos is being unjustly suspected. But as I have seen a
little of cowboys' singular imagination and gallantry, I am
rather inclined to fear their possibilities. So good-by."

Then she rode with Florence up the long, gray slope to the
ranch-house. That night she suffered from excessive weariness,
which she attributed more to the strange working of her mind than
to riding and sitting her horse. Morning, however, found her in
no disposition to rest. It was not activity that she craved, or
excitement, or pleasure. An unerring instinct, rising dear from
the thronging sensations of the last few days, told her that she
had missed something in life. It could not have been love, for
she loved brother, sister, parents, friends; it could not have
been consideration for the poor, the unfortunate, the hapless;
she had expressed her sympathy for these by giving freely; it
could not have been pleasure, culture, travel, society, wealth,
position, fame, for these had been hers all her life. Whatever
this something was, she had baffling intimations of it, hopes
that faded on the verge of realizations, haunting promises that
were unfulfilled. Whatever it was, it had remained hidden and
unknown at home, and here in the West it began to allure and
drive her to discovery. Therefore she could not rest; she wanted
to go and see; she was no longer chasing phantoms; it was a hunt
for treasure that held aloof, as intangible as the substance of
dreams.

That morning she spoke a desire to visit the Mexican quarters
lying at the base of the foothills. Florence protested that this
was no place to take Madeline. But Madeline insisted, and it
required only a few words and a persuading smile to win Florence