only knows the human agony and truth those words contain!"

Eleanor controlled herself before she continued.

"It is a story which I have told only once before, and I had not thought
to take any one except your father into its sad confidences; but you
should know it, dear. My father's health broke down after mother died,
and he was ordered West in the hope of prolonging his life. I was
sixteen then, two years younger than you are now. We went to Colorado,
on a ranch which father had bought upon the recommendation of a friend.
How well I remember the first impressions I received of that glorious
country: the exhilaration of that wonderful air, the inspiration of
those towering mountains, the novelty of the strange new conditions! I
rejoiced in the largeness of everything, and it seemed to me, those
first few days, as though life amid these surroundings could but
reflect the richness with which nature itself overflowed."

Alice's eyes were fixed upon Eleanor's face with intense interest. The
girl sensed even in these preliminary words the importance of what was
to follow, and was unwilling to lose a single syllable. Eleanor caught
the interest and sympathy of the girl's face as she paused for a moment,
and it gave her strength.

"Were you quite alone there?" Alice asked.

"Practically alone--the nearest ranch was four miles from ours.
Naturally, we saw few people, the most constant visitor at this time
being a young man who owned the ranch next to ours, who, during the
year, had ridden over to see us with increasing frequency. His name was
Ralph Buckner, and he seemed to us to be a characteristic product of the