Mrs. Weston could find no fault with the rooms. They were neat and
clean, even to the window-panes. Alice Weston was delighted. From her
window she could see miles of the western desert, and the far,
mysterious ranges bulked against the blue of the north; ranges that
seemed to whisper of romance, the unexplored, the alluring.

While Mrs. Adams was arranging things, Alice Weston gazed out of the
window. Below in the street a cowboy passed jauntily. A stray burro
crossed the street and nosed among some weeds. Then a stolid Indian
stalked by.

"Why, that is a real Indian!" exclaimed the girl.

"A Navajo," said Mrs. Adams. "They come in quite often."

"Really? And--oh, I forgot--the young man who rescued us told us that he
was your son."

"Lorry! Rescued you?"

"Yes." And the girl told Mrs. Adams about the accident and the tramp.

"I'm thankful that he didn't get killed," was Mrs. Adams's comment when
the girl had finished.

Alone in her room, Alice Weston bared her round young arms and enjoyed a
real, old-fashioned wash in a real, old-fashioned washbowl. Who could be
unhappy in this glorious country? But mother seemed so unimpressed! "And
I hope that steering-knuckle doesn't come for a month," the girl told a
framed lithograph of "Custer's Last Fight," which, contrary to all