sitting-room. The dining-room was built out from the back of the hall,
whence up a broad stairway Leila had gone. The walls were hung with
Indian painted robes, Sioux and Arapahoe weapons, old colonial rifles,
and among them portraits of three generations of Penhallows. Many older
people had found interesting the strange adornment of the walls, where
amid antlered trophies of game, buffalo heads and war-worn Indian relics,
could be read something of the owner's tastes and history. John stood by
the fire fascinated. Like many timid boys, he liked books of adventure
and to imagine himself heroic in situations of peril.

"It's all right. Come up," cried Leila from the stair. "Your trunk's
there now. There's a fine fire."

Forgetful of the cold ride and of the snow down his back, he was
standing before the feathered head-dress of a Sioux Chief and
touching the tomahawk below it. He turned as she spoke. "Those must
be scalp-locks--three." He saw the prairie, the wild pursuit--saw them
as she could not. He went after her upstairs, the girl talking, the
boy rapt, lost in far-away battles on the plains.

"This is your room. See what a nice fire. You can dry yourself. Your
trunk is here already." She lighted two candles. "We dine at half-past
six."

"Thank you; I am very much obliged," he said, thinking what a mannerless
girl.

Leila closed the door and stood still a moment. Then she exclaimed,
"Well, I never! What will Uncle Jim say?" She listened a moment. No
one was in the hall. Then she laughed, and getting astride of the