only mental stimulants in the valley and it was a surprisingly well-read
community. But Douglas, caring for Judith as he did, found it impossible
to become fully absorbed in his old pastimes. He was restless, moody and
lonely as only youth can be.

He and Judith both graduated from the log school early in June. There was
the usual graduation dance at the post-office at which, as usual, Peter
Knight officiated. It was a heavenly moonlit night. The air was fragrant
from the acres of budding alfalfa and full of the lift and tingle that
can belong to June only in the high altitudes. The ever strong, steady
west wind of Lost Chief summers swirled down the valley.

The hall was dimly lighted by a single kerosene lamp. Cigarette smoke
mingled with the pungent smell of whiskey, which seemed to be the chief
ingredient of a concoction in a large pail, under the lamp. In the corner
opposite the pail was a phonograph over which Peter presided.

Everybody danced. Even the dogs were not prohibited the floor. Only when
Sister started a fight with Prince did any one protest and the dogs were
driven back, temporarily, under the benches.

The schoolgirls in their white dresses were, of course, the belles of the
occasion. Lost Chief, living its intensive life of isolation, probably
did not realize of what superb physique were the youngsters of its third
generation. Jimmy Day devoted himself to Little Marion Falkner, aged
fourteen. Marion was called little to distinguish her from her mother,
also Marion. The daughter at fourteen was five feet ten inches in height,
the mother an inch taller. Even a badly cut muslin dress could not fully
conceal the fine breadth of Little Marion's shoulders nor the splendid
length and straightness of her legs.